◇
Arthur sat alone in the last compartment of the final carriage, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels steady and monotonous beneath him. Outside, the Scottish hills rolled past in muted greens and bruised greys, the sky heavy with a cloud cover that felt like a lid on the world. It had taken a convoluted series of routes to get here—back roads, borrowed Portkeys, and a Muggle train he'd sat on for three hours, staring at a static-heavy window. By the time he reached King's Cross, the platform had already been swept clean of its first-day chaos.
School had resumed already.
There were a few other students scattered through the train—stragglers, late transfers, the unlucky—but they kept their distance. Arthur wore his school robes now, properly buttoned, wand tucked where it belonged. To anyone passing, he looked… normal.
Almost.
His bag rested at his feet. Light. Too light, considering the gravity of the places he'd been. There were no textbooks in there yet, no inkwells or parchment. Sirius had those handled, even Elira. Just the basics and a single, jagged silver scale wrapped in silk at the very bottom.
"You know," Auren muttered in the back of his mind, his voice vibrating with a restless energy Arthur wasn't ready for yet. "Most people come back from near-death experiences with trauma. Nightmares. A stutter, maybe."
Arthur watched his reflection in the glass as the train plunged into a tunnel. "I do have trauma."
"You came back with a dragon's approval, a new vocabulary, and weirdly improved posture," Auren countered.
"Statistically, the physiological change in your resting heart rate suggests a shift in fight-or-flight thresholds," Ardyn added, his tone clinical and detached.
Arthur huffed quietly, the sound lost to the rattle of the tracks. "Not helping."
The reflection stared back at him as they emerged from the tunnel. Same dark hair. Maybe longer. Same familiar face. But the eyes—there was something fundamentally different there. They weren't brighter, but they were infinitely sharper. A thin, liquid ring of gold traced the outer edge of his brown irises, a secret that refused to stay hidden.
The trolley witch passed his compartment. Usually, she was a blur of sugar and forced cheer, but as she reached Arthur's door, she slowed. She glanced in, her eyes lingering on the way he sat—perfectly still, hands loose on his lap, gaze heavy. She didn't offer any sweets. She didn't even smile. She just tightened her grip on the handle of her cart and moved on, her footsteps sounding more hurried than they had a moment before.
Arthur didn't mind the cold shoulder. After Vaelithra, the opinions of people who dealt in Chocolate Frogs felt remarkably small.
The train whistle sounded, a long, mournful cry that echoed against the valley walls as they neared Hogsmeade. Arthur stood, the movement fluid and efficient. He didn't have to brace himself against the swaying of the carriage; his balance felt rooted, a byproduct of the ridge.
He thought briefly of the warmth heavy as a leaden wing, of a voice like winter wind over ancient stone, and of a name he would never say out loud within these castle walls.
Then he straightened his robes, squared his shoulders, and pulled his bag over his shoulder.
Hogwarts rose in the distance as the train rounded the final bend. It was unchanged—towering, stone-cold, and waiting to see if he'd survived the summer.
Arthur Reeves stepped into the aisle, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. Whatever he'd been before Raven's Peak had stayed on the mountain, buried under the ash.
The Boy Who Lived was back. But the boy who had left was gone.
◇◇
Hogsmeade Station greeted him like a place that had learned not to expect joy.
The platform lay empty beneath a thin, needling rain, the wood slick and darkened with age. No lanterns bobbed in the distance. No booming laugh. No oversized silhouette humming off-key. The air felt paused—as if the station itself were holding its breath, waiting to see who would step off the train.
Arthur was the only one who did. The rest? Who cares.
His boots struck the platform with a soft, deliberate rhythm. No rush. No uncertainty. The kind of walk you learned when the ground beneath you had once given way and you survived anyway.
At the far end of the station waited a single carriage.
Its lantern burned low, casting a weak amber halo against the rain. The harness creaked faintly as the creature attached to it shifted its weight—long limbs, skeletal ribs, wings folded tight like a bad mood.
Thorn.
The Thestral huffed, irritated, his voice slipping into Arthur's mind before he even turned.
"Fantastic," Thorn grumbled, his tone dry as old parchment. "One passenger. One. Do you know what it takes to haul a carriage all the way up to the castle for a single late student? I don't get overtime. I don't get hazard pay. I don't even get—"
He stopped.
Not mid-sentence.
Mid-thought.
Thorn's body went rigid, wings twitching as his white, sightless eyes snapped toward Arthur with uncanny precision.
The rain pattered softly between them.
"…Hold on," Thorn said slowly. "That's not right."
Arthur stepped closer, entering the reach of the lantern's glow. The light caught his face, his posture, the stillness he carried like armor. And then it caught his eyes.
The thin ring of gold flared subtly, metallic and alive.
In Year Two, Arthur had smelled like ink and parchment. Like bread crumbs and curiosity. He'd spoken softly, always careful not to spook.
Now—
"You smell wrong," Thorn muttered, his usual sarcasm faltering. "Not bad. Just… wrong. Like altitude. Like burned stone. Like something that doesn't belong on this side of the sky."
Arthur stopped a few feet from him.
"Obsidian," Thorn whispered, reverent despite himself.
Arthur didn't smile.
He reached out and placed his hand on Thorn's snout.
The Thestral inhaled sharply, then—astonishingly—leaned into it. His bony frame relaxed, a low, unfamiliar sound rumbling through his chest. Recognition. Not fear.
"The world got bigger," Arthur said quietly.
Thorn scoffed, but it came out weaker than intended. "Bigger? You look like you fell into something ancient and crawled back out wearing its shadow. I thought you were just another polite little human. Now you're—"
He paused, searching for the word.
"…Now you're making my instincts itch."
Arthur withdrew his hand and turned toward the carriage.
"Just take me up," he said. "I'm late for dinner."
There was a beat.
Then Thorn shifted into position without complaint.
"Right," he muttered, tugging at the harness. "Of course you are. Sir."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The carriage lurched forward, wheels rolling over wet stone. Thorn pulled with a strength that hadn't been there before—no sighing, no theatrics. A beast recognized another beast when it saw one.
Arthur settled into the velvet seat, resting his head briefly against the window as the castle gates loomed closer through the rain.
◇◇◇
The Great Hall was alive in its usual way—plates refilling themselves, goblets clinking, laughter bouncing lazily off enchanted stone. Candles floated overhead in uneven constellations, their flames steady and warm. Conversations overlapped. Life was continuing exactly as Hogwarts expected it to.
The heavy oak doors creaked inward, slow and deliberate, like the castle itself was testing the air before letting something through.
The sound didn't vanish all at once.
It rippled.
From the back of the hall first—where a group of Hufflepuffs nearest the entrance trailed off mid-laugh. A fork hovered. Someone frowned, distracted by a pressure they couldn't name.
A second later, Ravenclaw quieted.
Then Slytherin.
By the time the doors were fully open, the sound had thinned into an uneasy hush that crept forward like fog rolling downhill.
Arthur stepped inside.
He didn't pause at the threshold.
That was the first mistake everyone noticed.
Most late students hesitated—looked for a professor, adjusted their robes, tried to make themselves smaller. Arthur did none of that. He walked in with the certainty of someone who had already crossed worse thresholds and survived them.
His robes were Hogwarts black, properly worn. No rebellion there. No spectacle. His boots were clean. His wand sat where it always had.
But everything else was… wrong.
His hair was longer now, wind-swept and untamed, as if it had forgotten how to lie flat. His face had sharpened—not older, exactly, but stripped of softness. Like something fragile had burned away and left bone and resolve behind.
And then there were his eyes.
A thin ring of gold framed each iris, subtle but unmistakable. Not a spell. Not a glamour. It didn't shimmer or pulse. It simply was. Like molten metal cooled into place and fused there permanently.
People didn't know what they were seeing.
They just knew it wasn't normal.
The air around him felt dense, charged—not aggressive, not hostile, but heavy. Like standing too close to a storm that hadn't decided whether to break yet.
Arthur didn't scan the room.
Didn't look for approval. Didn't flinch under the sudden attention.
He walked straight down the aisle between the tables, footsteps measured, unhurried, carrying the quiet authority of someone who had learned that hesitation got you killed.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy looked up.
And froze.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
Draco had known Arthur since before the first year began—before expectations calcified, before names meant power. He knew Arthur's silences, his sharp humor, the way he watched rooms instead of people.
This wasn't unfamiliar.
It was… evolved.
Draco's grey eyes flicked to Arthur's face, then to his eyes. Something sharp passed over his expression—calculation, concern, and something dangerously close to pride.
He shifted without thinking, pulling his chair back just enough.
Making space.
Arthur reached the table and sat beside him like that had always been where he belonged.
No greeting.
No announcement.
Just presence.
Draco leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only Arthur could hear.
"You disappear for a year," he murmured, "and come back looking like you mugged a god."
Arthur exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.
"Rude," he said. "I didn't mug him"
Draco's lips curved despite himself. But his eyes stayed sharp.
"…Him?"
Arthur reached for a goblet, took a measured sip.
"We'll talk later."
Draco nodded once.
The High Table felt the shift before it acknowledged it.
McGonagall had sat up in her seat, but her posture was rigid now, shoulders squared like she was bracing against an incoming storm. Her eyes tracked Arthur's every movement—not suspicious, not accusatory.
Assessing.
Snape noticed next.
He didn't turn immediately. He never did. Instead, his black eyes flicked sideways first, catching Arthur in the periphery. Then—slowly—he looked fully down the table.
And stopped.
Severus Snape had made a career out of reading danger. He had survived Voldemort, the Dark Arts, and Dumbledore's long games by knowing when something didn't fit.
Arthur Reeves didn't fit.
Not the robes. Not the age.
Snape's lip curled—not in disgust, but something closer to irritation.
That boy should not feel like that.
At the far end of the table, Alastor Moody leaned back in his chair, magical eye whirring softly as it rotated.
It landed on Arthur.
And didn't move.
Moody's real eye narrowed. The fake one spun, clicked, and focused again—through skin, through magic, through intention.
He let out a low, humorless grunt.
"Well I'll be damned," he muttered.
Arthur didn't look up.
That was deliberate.
He focused on his plate instead, cutting into his food with precise, controlled movements. He could feel Dumbledore's gaze like fingers at the back of his neck—curious, measuring, almost pleased.
It made something cold twist in his chest.
The hatred wasn't loud.
It never was.
It sat there, quiet and unreasoned, like a splinter under the skin he could never quite dig out. Arthur didn't know when it had started—only that it sharpened every time Dumbledore smiled like that. Like Arthur was a story unfolding for him.
Auren stirred uneasily.
—You don't trust him.
"No," Arthur thought back. "I don't."
Snape leaned forward slightly, addressing Dumbledore without taking his eyes off Arthur.
"He has changed," Snape said flatly.
Dumbledore smiled. "As we all do."
Snape's gaze sharpened. "Not like that."
Moody snorted. "Boy's been somewhere he wasn't meant to come back from."
That earned Moody a glance from McGonagall.
"He's a student," she said.
"For now," Moody replied.
At the Slytherin table, the atmosphere had shifted just as sharply.
Whispers were starting—but they were careful ones.
Not gossip. Reconnaissance.
Pansy leaned closer to Draco, her voice low. "What happened to him?"
Draco didn't answer immediately.
He was watching Arthur the way one watched a blade—appreciating its balance, noting its edge, aware of where it could cut.
"He stopped being predictable," Draco said finally.
Blaise studied Arthur openly, head tilted. "That's never good."
Theo's eyes were bright with interest. "Or it's very good. Depends who you are."
Draco's fingers tapped once against the table.
Arthur finally glanced sideways at him.
Just a look.
But Draco felt it settle between his shoulders like a hand reminding him where loyalty lived.
Dumbledore raised his goblet.
"To the continuation of term," he said smoothly. "And to the safety of our students."
Arthur raised his goblet a heartbeat later.
He didn't look at Dumbledore when he drank.
The cold front had settled.
And Hogwarts, ancient and perceptive, understood something the people hadn't yet put into words:
Arthur Reeves wasn't here to be guided.
He was here to endure.
and to watch who tried to shape him.
◇◇◇
The Great Hall emptied slowly.
Students drifted out in clusters, voices rising again now that the pressure had lifted, speculation spreading like wildfire through dry grass. Arthur let them pass him. He moved last, unhurried, letting the echoes of the feast fade behind him.
He almost made it to the doors.
"Arthur," a voice called out. Soft. Musical.
Arthur stopped anyway.
He didn't turn at first.
The corridor beyond the Hall was dimmer, lit by wall torches and the low glow of enchanted windows. The stone felt colder here. Older. Less forgiving.
Dumbledore approached from behind, footsteps unhurried. When Arthur finally turned, the Headmaster was already watching him with that familiar, infuriating calm—half amusement, half calculation.
Albus Dumbledore stood ten feet away. The torches in the corridor flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows. The Headmaster looked exactly the same—the silver beard, the half-moon spectacles, the gentle tilt of the head.
"Headmaster," Arthur said. His voice was flat, devoid of the jagged edge it used to have. He was past the point of being a brat; he was simply... elsewhere.
Dumbledore stepped closer, his gaze migrating instantly to Arthur's eyes. He went very still. In the dim light, the gold rings around Arthur's irises didn't just catch the fire—they seemed to absorb it.
"A fascinating year you've had, I imagine," Dumbledore murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I had hoped to see you at Remus'. Your absence caused quite a stir of concern among those who care for you."
"I was busy. School stuffs," Arthur replied.
"So I see." Dumbledore's eyes sharpened, the "grandfather" mask slipping just enough to show the veteran of two wars beneath. "That mark you carry... it is not easily earned. It speaks of a bond with a creature of immense power. And immense danger. There are friendships, Arthur, that can lead one down a path where the fire eventually consumes the host."
It was the classic Dumbledore riddle—a warning wrapped in a metaphor, designed to make a student feel small and reckless.
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't defend himself. He actually laughed—a short, dry sound that had no humor in it.
"You call it a 'dangerous friendship' because you can't control it, Headmaster," Arthur said, taking a step forward.
"You spend so much time worrying about the 'path' that you forget some of us are just trying to find some ground that isn't shifting under our feet."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but his fingers twitched inside his voluminous sleeves. "Truth can be a fire as well, Arthur. One that burns away everything but itself."
"Then let it burn," Arthur countered. He looked Dumbledore dead in the eye, the gold ring flaring with a sudden, metallic intensity. "I didn't find a friend on that mountain, Headmaster. I found someone who tells the truth without a hundred riddles to hide it. You should try it sometime. It's remarkably refreshing."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Dumbledore looked as though he had been struck—not by a spell, but by the sheer, cold honesty of a boy he could no longer categorize as a "problem student."
Arthur took that moment.
He inclined his head—not in respect, not in defiance. Acknowledgment. Then he turned and walked away down the corridor, footsteps steady, unhurried.
He didn't look back.
Dumbledore remained where he was, alone in the dim hall, cane resting lightly against the stone.
His eyes followed Arthur until the shadows swallowed him.
"Well," Dumbledore said softly to the empty corridor.
The twinkle returned—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"This will be… complicated."
And for the first time in a long while, the most powerful wizard in the world realized something important had slipped beyond his grasp—
—and had done so willingly.