The castle hadn't changed over the break. Same stone walls. Same creaky suits of armor. Same draft that swept the hallways like a ghost looking for somewhere to haunt. But something was different. The silence was heavier now. Weighted.
Students were back, technically, but they didn't walk the corridors like they used to. They shuffled. Whispered. Avoided him.
Arthur Reeves moved through the halls like a specter himself, his robes brushing the walls, eyes half-lowered, ears wide open. There were stares when he passed—quick ones, behind books or from across staircases. Conversations dipped when he entered rooms. Even portraits seemed wary of speaking while he was in earshot.
He didn't blame them.
He'd played his part too well.
He turned a corner, hand brushing absently against the stone. A few third-years ahead of him saw him and immediately turned around, murmuring an excuse that didn't even sound convincing. One of them tripped over their own bag in the rush.
Arthur didn't flinch.
The rooster's voice echoed in his head—still dry, clipped, and ridiculously formal.
"Because something's hunting. And we're noisy. We warn the others. The beast doesn't like that."
He'd tried to shrug it off. At first. Chickens don't usually have war reports or suicidal tendencies that actually led to it's death. But Sergeant Wooster hadn't been joking. Whatever was moving through the walls of Hogwarts—whatever had turned Dean Thomas into a frozen statue—it wasn't just magic.
It was fear.
He slowed his steps as he reached the corridor where Dean had fallen. The floor had been scrubbed clean, of course, but he could still picture the moment—the way the boy's eyes had gone wide in a silent scream, his body tipping backwards, stiff as stone. The ghost of Sir Nicholas was moved from where it was near the window.
Arthur paused, watching a spider skitter across the base of the wall—only to abruptly change direction and flee the corridor altogether.
He frowned.
The spiders were still running.
Still afraid.
And roosters? They warned others. They made noise. They were the only creatures that could kill certain kinds of serpents.
He'd already had his suspicions, of course. Serpentine beasts—ones that moved in secret, ones that could kill without ever being seen.
Now?
Now he had confirmation.
And if he was right… he'd have to act soon.
The heir would strike again.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
"Welcome back," Snape said, in a tone that made it sound more like a threat than a greeting.
The dungeons were as dreary as ever, the torches giving off a sickly green hue that made everyone look mildly ill. Students shuffled in with the same tentative energy they'd carried since returning from the break. Eyes darted, voices hushed. Even the Slytherins seemed unusually quiet.
Arthur took his usual seat at the back beside Theo, who offered a slight nod and nothing more.
Snape stalked to the front of the class, robes billowing dramatically even without wind. "It's a new term," he continued smoothly, "which means, inevitably, new disappointments. But let's delay the failure and begin with something simple."
He turned, scribbled a complex name of a calming draught on the board, then paused—just long enough for it to feel pointed.
"Before that," he said, voice low and cutting, "I should address a matter of theft."
That got everyone's attention.
Snape's eyes narrowed like a predator circling prey. "Over the holidays, several ingredients were stolen from my private stores. Boomslang skin. Lacewing flies. Bicorne horn. Fairly specific... wouldn't you say?"
He let the silence stretch.
Arthur frowned slightly.
That wasn't just specific—it was very specific. And familiar.
Snape moved closer, arms folded behind his back, his black eyes scanning the room like he already knew who was responsible. "Such a mixture," he drawled, "isn't just rare… it's regulated. The sort of concoction one might use to assume… other appearances."
Arthur stiffened.
He knew that recipe.
Polyjuice.
Snape didn't say the name—but he didn't have to.
Theo shifted beside him.
Snape's gaze flicked—briefly—toward Arthur. Not long enough to accuse. Just long enough to acknowledge.
But Arthur wasn't looking at Snape anymore.
His eyes scanned the class, carefully studying body language. Nervous glances. Forced casualness. Who would be desperate enough to change their appearance?
Then his eyes stopped.
Bingo.
Hermione looked exhausted. Weasley was sitting stiffly like his skin didn't fit quite right. And Harry—wasn't even meeting anyone's eyes.
What the hell are you three up to?
Arthur sat back slowly, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.
Someone had brewed Polyjuice.
He just had to figure out why.
And fast.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Dinner passed uneventfully—at least, on the surface.
Arthur barely touched his food, mind drifting. The stolen ingredients.
He stabbed a potato absently.
At least the chatter in the hall had calmed—meaning most people had stopped openly staring at him. But he could still feel it. The unease. The way conversations would quiet just a second too late when he passed. A girl from Ravenclaw dropped her goblet the moment he made eye contact.
After dinner, he, Draco, and Theo headed back through the dungeons.
Their boots echoed down the stone corridors.
Arthur stopped before the entrance to the Slytherin common room and muttered the password. The stone wall slid open with a familiar grind.
"I'll head in first," Arthur said, glancing back over his shoulder.
"I'll be right behind you," Theo said, then jerked a thumb at Draco. "He still has to go round up his bodyguards."
"Crabbe and Goyle are probably glued to a pudding somewhere," Arthur muttered.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You two go. I'll double back and find them."
"Have you checked the Great Hall?" a new voice chimed in.
Myles strolled up, arms crossed and wand lazily tucked behind one ear.
Draco paused. "Huh… you know, for a slacker, you do know how to use your brain."
Myles grinned. "Takes one to know one."
Draco smirked and turned back the way they came.
Arthur grabbed Theo by the sleeve and pushed him lightly toward the open wall. "Inside. Before you say something that gets us all detention."
Theo muttered, "No promises," but allowed himself to be ushered through.
Myles followed last, hands in his pockets. "By the way," he added dryly, "I'm charging for every time I solve your problems."
"Put it on Draco's tab," Arthur said, letting the wall slide shut behind them.
The Slytherin common room was low-lit and cold as ever. But to Arthur, it felt slightly warmer than the corridors outside.
Still—something twisted in his gut.
Something was coming.
And it wasn't pudding.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur sat curled up in one of the green velvet armchairs, a copy of the Daily Prophet open in his lap. He didn't even like newspapers. But it made a decent shield when one wanted to observe without being too obvious.
The common room was quieter than usual. Remnants of the holidays still clung to the corners—faded streamers, a tiny present perched suspiciously on the table with a tag that read "To Blaise, from... B."
He glanced at it once, snorted softly, and returned to scanning the headlines. More attacks. More whispers. The Ministry denying everything.
Then the wall slid open.
Arthur looked up lazily.
Draco stepped in with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
Well—presumably.
Goyle was wearing glasses.
Not just any glasses. Perfectly round ones that looked like they'd been borrowed from someone's great-aunt or stolen from a fashion-blind owl.
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly.
The pair of them—Crabbe and Goyle—stood in the middle of the common room like they'd never seen it before.
They looked around too slowly. Too obviously. Like tourists.
Crabbe's jaw hung open a little too long. Goyle adjusted his glasses clumsily—with both hands.
Arthur blinked once, lowered the newspaper an inch.
Oh, this was rich.
Arthur didn't say anything at first. He just watched.
He watched as Crabbe leaned a little too close to Draco.
He watched as Goyle sat stiffly upright, hands fidgeting in his lap—still wearing those ridiculous glasses.
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
"Why're you wearing glasses?" he asked suddenly, directing the question at Goyle.
The boy stiffened. "Reading," he said a bit too quickly as he took of the glasses.
Arthur blinked. "Reading," he repeated. "You?"
Even Draco turned to look. "Didn't know you could read, Goyle," he said with a smirk.
There was a pause.
"Goyle" chuckled weakly. "Surprises all around."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but said nothing more.
The three continued talking, and it didn't take long for the conversation to shift. Too carefully, too purposefully.
"So, uh…" "Crabbe" began, "any news on the attacks?"
Draco frowned. "I told you. I don't know who the Heir is."
"But you think it's someone in Hogwarts?"
"Obviously," Draco scoffed. "They're not flying in from Bulgaria each time, are they?"
Another pause.
"But what if it is you?" Goyle asked, more tentatively this time.
Arthur raised an eyebrow behind his newspaper.
Draco rolled his eyes. "I wish. My father said last time the Chamber was opened, a Mudblood died. This time, I'm hoping it's Granger."
Arthur's eyes flicked to Crabbe. The air seemed to shift—like tension pressing inward.
He felt something—not a sound, but a change—a tightening of breath. Fury.
Especially from "Crabbe."
Arthur lowered the paper slightly and watched as "Crabbe's" fists clenched. Barely perceptible, but there. Arthur's instincts prickled.
Then Goyle turned to Crabbe and muttered something under his breath—something calming, probably, to keep him from exploding.
Arthur sighed and dropped the paper onto his lap.
"Subtle as a thestral in a tutu," he murmured to himself.
He watched them for a beat longer. The disguise was clever, he had to admit. Polyjuice, no doubt. But they clearly hadn't practiced being Crabbe and Goyle. They couldn't even mimic the stupidity.
Still, he didn't blow their cover.
Not yet.
Arthur leaned back, eyes on the flickering flames.
Whoever they were, they wanted answers.
And whatever game they were playing—it was about to get complicated.
The questions kept coming, clumsy and oddly rehearsed.
Draco seemed increasingly baffled. "I already told you everything I know," he said, clearly annoyed. "If I were the Heir, don't you think I'd be bragging about it by now?"
"Crabbe" made a frustrated huff and mumbled something under his breath.
Arthur caught it, barely: "That's not helpful…"
His eyes narrowed again.
Then things started getting…weird.
"Goyle" suddenly squinted hard at the fireplace like it was a painting that might come to life. His mouth moved a little—counting something, maybe?
Next to him, "Crabbe's" face was turning a dangerous shade of red.
Not angry red. Boiling over red.
Sweat beaded his brow.
His hair, Arthur noticed, was beginning to shift—gaining a copper tint.
Uh-oh.
The two imposters suddenly stood up, chairs scraping noisily.
"Where are you going?" Draco frowned.
"Crabbe's got a… heartache," "Goyle" muttered rapidly, already half-dragging the other boy toward the door.
Arthur watched them bolt up the stone steps and out of the common room like the room was on fire. Heartache? Really?
He blinked slowly, eyes narrowing.
They're shrinking, he thought. Definitely shrinking.
There was silence for a long beat.
Draco finally turned to Arthur, a bit stunned.
"…Was that—?"
Arthur nodded once. "Yup."
"Why?"
Arthur didn't even blink. "Don't ask."
Draco gave him a long look, then shook his head and turned toward the small table nearby. His eyes fell on the tiny, poorly wrapped box sitting near the edge—ribbon flopped over like it had given up halfway through trying.
He picked it up.
"Is this yours?" he asked.
Arthur glanced at it. The tag had blown off—he knew it had been Blaise's, a half-forgotten gift that had somehow migrated to the common room.
He shrugged. "No idea. Probably Blaise."
Draco turned the box over once more, then placed it back down.
The fire crackled.
Arthur leaned back and muttered under his breath, "Now that was interesting…"