Cassian walked alone through the stone corridors, each step echoing off the ancient walls. The torches flickered as he passed, and for a moment, he looked as though he belonged more in shadow than in light.
As he turned the corner, he brushed past a boy heading the other way—Harry Potter, eyes set, walking straight toward the office Cassian had just left. Cassian paused, watching the boy for a heartbeat.
So young, he thought. Just like he was…
The past crept in like cold wind through an open door.
---
A Memory – Glenhaven, Years Ago
Cassian had been thirteen when it first happened. The whisper of wings. The rustle of fur. The call in the night. The beasts had spoken—and he had answered. The first gift. The Beasttongue. The one always born to the first child.
Philip, his younger brother, had inherited the Arcane Core—raw magical potential, pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He had always burned brighter, and faster.
Selene, the youngest, their moonlit sister, had been born with the Sighted Soul—visions, dreams, and secrets only she could see. She never quite belonged in the present. Not fully.
It was always like that with the Reeves. Always. Since their great-grandfather Silas Reeves had crossed the sea from America and built Glenhaven, the bloodline had carried power—fragmented, but bound by ancient rhythm.
Why they were born this way? Even Cassian didn't know.
But he knew this:
He had loved them.
Even if he had never said it.
Even if he'd stood behind stone walls of silence.
He should have kept them close.
But now Philip was gone—murdered.
And Selene... lost. Lost to time and space, like a whisper scattered in the wind.
----
Present
He stopped in his tracks, the weight of memory anchoring him.
He closed his eyes. Breathed deep.
He wouldn't lose Arthur.
Not like Philip. Not like Selene.
He had made a promise.
Philip had trusted him, even when they disagreed. Cassian never approved of his marriage—marrying into the Rosiers, even a branch family, was never simple. But he had trusted Philip. Because a Reeves, if nothing else, must trust his own.
Whatever it took.
Arthur just needed one year.
Away from danger. Away from legends and wars and shadows.
One year to grow.
To become the boy Cassian needed him to be.
No—the man the world would one day need.
He opened his eyes.
The resolve settled in his bones like iron cooling into form.
Whatever it took.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The white ceiling above him blurred as he blinked.
Too bright.
The last thing Arthur remembered was walking out of the Headmaster's office... and then?
Nothing.
Did I faint?
Yeah. That would track.
Too much blood loss.
He tried to move—and immediately regretted it. His body screamed in protest, bound tight with bandages. Not just healing bandages… these were restraining.
He groaned.
"You're awake!"
The familiar voice made him turn his head—painfully.
"Remus," Arthur rasped.
His godfather was sitting right there, eyes tired but smiling. Relief written all over his worn face.
Arthur offered the smallest smirk. "Glad you made it to my not-deathday."
Remus let out a shaky laugh. "You always did have your mother's flair for timing. And your father's gift for scaring the life out of me."
Arthur rolled his eyes—or tried to. "What's the damage?"
"You're lucky," Remus said. "You survived a Basilisk, Arthur. A Basilisk. That thing was ancient—feral. I don't know how you did it. But Merlin... thank you."
Arthur frowned slightly.
Remus continued, "You were bleeding everywhere, passed out cold, and that creature—good riddance to it. Creatures like that should never have been down there in the first place."
"Stop."
Arthur's voice cut through the hospital wing air like a shard of ice.
Remus blinked, confused. "What—?"
"Don't call it that," Arthur said quickly. His chest heaved slightly with effort. "It wasn't… it wasn't a monster."
Remus tilted his head, expression shifting.
Arthur closed his eyes.
In his mind—those eyes again. Old. Tired. Not violent. Not evil.
Begging.
Begging for release.
"The Basilisk…" Arthur whispered, "it had a soul, Remus. It knew what it was. What it had become. And it begged me. Begged me to end it."
Remus looked stunned. Silent.
"It didn't ask to be born that way. It didn't ask to be used. Trapped. Alone. Cursed."
As Arthur spoke, something shifted in the air. His breathing slowed, but his voice deepened slightly—not in tone, but in weight. Ancient. Empathetic. His eyes—
—for a brief second—
—turned a soft, glowing brown, rich and warm like the forest floor. Like earth and creature and instinct.
Then they flickered back to blue.
Remus leaned back, eyes narrowing. He'd seen that look before. On someone else. Philip.
"You spoke to it," Remus said quietly.
Arthur didn't reply.
"You didn't just hear it. You understood it. Didn't you?"
Still, Arthur didn't say a word.
But that silence spoke volumes.
Remus looked at him as if seeing something new. Something old. Something... Reeves.
"…so, if things go well, I might be teaching here next year," Remus said, smiling softly.
Arthur's eyes lit up—just a little. "That's… great. My godfather being my teacher."
He even chuckled. But it didn't reach his eyes.
Before Remus could respond, the door opened sharply.
Cassian Reeves stepped in like a shadow trailing a storm. His coat still damp from the rain outside, his presence immediately filled the room.
"No, he won't."
Remus stood, tension crackling. "Cassian."
"Remus." Cassian's tone was stiff. "We both know what's happening. And what has to happen."
"There's still time to figure something out. There are options," Remus insisted.
"We tried," Cassian said firmly. "And we failed." He turned to Arthur, his face unreadable but his voice almost… tender. "Once you're healed, you're coming with me."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Where?"
"Not here."
Arthur slowly sat up, wincing. "Hang on. You don't get to show up in my life after eleven years, and start controlling it. Where were you, Uncle? Huh?"
The room fell cold.
Cassian's jaw clenched. Then, voice low and echoing, "Waiting for your goddamn mother's letter."
The magic in the air rippled as if the words had power of their own.
"I wanted to take you the moment it happened. That night," he said, each syllable thick with memory. "But your mother—bless her clever soul—wanted you safe. With your godfather. Away from prying eyes."
He took a breath, his hands curling slightly. "She left me a parchment. A binding spell. Said that if you were ever in danger or found the letter she left for you, it would write itself. Her words would appear. Her words, not mine."
Arthur stared, unsure whether to believe—or want to believe—any of it.
"Then what?" Arthur asked, voice quieter now.
"Then," Cassian continued, "the words came. It told me you would come to the golden crust. Telling me to do everything in my power to protect you. To train you up. The future of the Reeves bloodline." He scoffed. "Never mind that."
He stepped closer.
"I've found this school to be a threat to you, Arthur. First-year, Voldemort. Second-year, a bloody Basilisk and a teenage Voldemort. You think this is going to stop?"
Arthur's lips curled in defiance. "You can't make me leave. I'm fine here."
"Are you?" Cassian's voice cracked, his calm peeling at the edges. "Arthur, are you?"
He stepped closer still, his stare intense.
"Look me in the eye and tell me—tell me that since the day you stepped foot here, your life hasn't turned into chaos."
Arthur opened his mouth.
But said nothing.
Because the truth sat between them like a ghost.
Arthur's hands clenched against the sheets. The bandages itched, burned even, like his skin remembered the fangs and fire. He couldn't move—but his heart pounded like a trapped thing.
"You don't have to be right all the time," he growled.
Except it wasn't English.
The air shimmered slightly—just for a moment—as the words left his mouth in a low, guttural snarl that rang of something old and wild. Something canine.
But Cassian didn't flinch. He replied in the same breath, in the same tongue—the sound ancient and fluid in his mouth, like it had always belonged there.
"I need you to be safe. It's just one year. You can come back after one year."
Arthur froze. He tried to sit up, failed, winced. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Finally, in English:
"How?"
Cassian's gaze held his. Steady. Fierce. Not unkind.
"There's a lot you don't know about your family name," he said softly. "A lot no one told you. Because they thought it would protect you."
He turned to Remus. "Please, Remus."
Remus hesitated—torn between duty, history, and affection.
Finally, his voice quiet:
"If he wants to go, he can go."
Arthur turned away from both of them, eyes on the far window, where clouds gathered and owls circled in eerie silence.
Because this wasn't about what he wanted.
It never had been.
Arthur didn't say another word. He just lay there, watching the sky shift through the windowpane, his pulse echoing faintly in his ears.
The year was almost at an end.
And somehow, he had changed again.
Not the kind of change people see—not taller, not braver, not stronger.
But different.
Like something had cracked open inside him and refused to close.
This really sucked.