The chamber breathed darkness.
Arthur moved cautiously, his vision dim behind the tightly wound fabric of his Slytherin tie. Every step echoed, every breath felt borrowed. He couldn't see—not truly—but the damp air told him all he needed to know: something massive was near.
The whisper came, not to his ears—but deep into his thoughts.
"You smell... like prey..."
His fingers tightened on his wand.
A distant hiss. The scrape of scale on ancient stone. The Basilisk was awake. Hunting.
Arthur's heartbeat slowed—not sped up. He focused, reaching into that strange stillness he had come to know since the change. His Beasttongue didn't just hear now. It felt.
He sensed the coiled hunger. The seething malice. The predator.
He smiled faintly.
"Come then," he whispered under his breath. "Let's see whose instincts bite harder."
Arthur felt it before he heard it.
The vibrations thrummed through the floor—powerful, rhythmic. The Basilisk was closing in. Fast.
And he was standing right next to the girls.
He cursed under his breath.
No choice.
Gripping his wand tightly, Arthur bolted, tie still knotted over his eyes, trailing like a reckless banner. His feet pounded against the ancient floor as he sprinted away from the girls' prone bodies. He couldn't let the snake get near them. That was the one line he wouldn't let Riddle cross.
Behind him, the beast hissed, not in anger—but purpose. The kind of purpose that spoke of obedience, of orders embedded deep into scale and soul.
"Must obey master. Must kill."
Arthur didn't run blindly. He remembered the layout of the Chamber—every pillar, every echoing turn. Tom's monologue had bought him enough time to study the place. If his calculations were right, the tunnel entrance wasn't far.
The tie still around his eyes, he ducked behind the curve of stone. Breathing shallow. Listening.
The hiss of scales behind him grew louder. Closer.
Closer.
He slipped behind a pillar, ducked left into a bend—and found it.
He reached the tunnel—just in time. The air shifted behind him. That massive head nearly clipped him.
Without hesitation, he dove in.
The Basilisk followed, its enormous body coiling through the opening with a sound like grinding stone. Dust fell from the ceiling as its head twisted into the tunnel after him.
He pulled the tie down around his neck as he ducked behind the curve of stone. Breathing shallow. Listening.
Arthur didn't stop. The tunnel was narrow, too tight for the serpent to maneuver easily. It gave him time.
Just not enough.
His lungs burned.
He ducked behind another bend, pressing himself against the curved wall, heart slamming against his ribs. The snake slid past, missing him by inches. Its scales brushed his cloak and tore part of it free. The serpent was far too fast.
He spotted it then—an iron bar, thick and rusted, resting near some fallen debris. Probably part of the Chamber's forgotten mechanisms. It looked like it hadn't moved in centuries.
Convenient, he thought grimly.
He snatched it up.
It was heavy. Long. Strong.
Behind him, the tunnel ended in a thick iron mesh—he was cornered.
He didn't need a distraction. He needed it to come back.
Arthur raised the bar, clenched his teeth, and smashed it against the mesh.
CLANG.
Again.
CLANG.
Again.
CLANG.
The vibrations screamed through the tunnel like a beacon.
Then he heard the voice.
Not Tom's. No. Something deeper. More primal. Inside his skull.
"I must obey... I must obey the master... I must kill... I must kill..."
It was hesitation.
Doubt.
The beast was conflicted.
That was his window.
Arthur closed his eyes. Gripped the bar tightly. Focused on the magic surging in his blood.
"Lumos Maxima"
A blinding burst of light detonated from his wand, burning through his eyelids like lightning. Not to blind the snake—it wouldn't work, not truly.
The plan was simpler.
As the serpent lunged, the pole met it—directly into its right eye.
The scream tore through the chamber, deafening and furious. The beast thrashed violently, stone cracking under its weight.
Arthur ran. Not fast enough. He was almost at the entrance when —
A final coil struck him, a brutal whip of muscle and scale that sent him flying through the tunnel entrance like a ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard.
Something crunched.
He groaned. Tried to move.
Then stopped.
"Yep," he hissed to himself, wincing. "That's at least two ribs. Nope, maybe three."
As he tried to move, he screamed in pain.
But he got up anyway.
Because he had to.
Tom's voice echoed from the shadows, full of theatrical cruelty.
"You can see him, can't you? He's weak. Bleeding. Finish him. Kill him."
Arthur barely heard it.
The world had narrowed to survival.
His tie was gone—ripped away in the blast. He could see now. Blood blurred one eye, but it didn't matter. The Basilisk was already out of the tunnel, writhing in rage.
Arthur's eyes scanned the wreckage—his wand in hand—and then he saw it.
The iron bar.
Lying in the dust, glistening with thick black blood. The first blow had cost the creature an eye. He had one chance to make the second count.
He raised his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The bar lifted, trembling in the air. Arthur clenched his jaw, focused.
"Incendio."
Flames burst to life around the bar, licking the bloodied iron. As the Basilisk reared for another strike, Arthur hurled the bar with everything he had.
The makeshift weapon whistled through the air—
—and pierced the Basilisk's other eye.
The beast shrieked, an unnatural, piercing scream that shook the very bones of the Chamber.
But Arthur didn't stop to celebrate.
He was already unleashing spells.
"Confringo!"
"Depulso!"
"Expulso!"
One after the other. The serpent writhed and thrashed, crashing into stone pillars, rubble falling around them.
And still, Tom Riddle's voice taunted from the darkness:
"You can still smell him. You know where he is. Kill him."
The tail lashed again—whomp—missing Arthur by inches.
The Chamber shook with the Basilisk's rage.
Slabs of stone crashed from the ceiling as the serpent flailed, blinded and furious, sending shockwaves through the ancient vault. Tom Riddle's form—still half-illusion, half-ghost—stood arrogantly behind the chaos, arms folded, eyes burning with cold delight.
Arthur rolled to his feet, blood trickling down his brow, breath ragged. His ribs were definitely bruised—or worse—but he had no time to check. Pain was just background noise now.
His eyes stayed locked on the thrashing creature.
The Basilisk had gone fully feral, crashing into pillars, tail whipping like a monstrous pendulum. It could no longer see, but it didn't need to. It was hunting with its other senses now—vibration, scent, maybe even blood in the air.
He gritted his teeth.
Predator.
Versus prey.
He picked up his wand again—familiar weight, familiar warmth—but in his bones, he felt it wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. "Now would be a great time to have a flashback. Come on, brain. Give me something deep and dramatic."
Nothing.
The snake's tail slammed beside him, missing by inches. The force of it sent Arthur sliding across the broken floor. He winced, rolled, and rose again, eyes never leaving the creature.
He needed more. Something more.
He whispered spell after spell, buying seconds, keeping the serpent confused. A flash of fire here. A blast of air there. He darted between pillars, calculating angles, predicting its next lunge.
But he felt it—his edge was slipping.
Now would be a really good time to remember something profound, he thought. Some old lesson. Some powerful memory. Anytime now.
And then—
It hit him.
It was none other that Cassian Reeves.
The summer. The first time he met his uncle.
The man who trained him like no one else ever had.
∆∆∆∆∆∆
As they reached the door, the air around the knife shimmered—and the blade morphed into something sleek and narrow. Not a knife anymore but...
"A wand?" Arthur asked, trying not to sound too impressed. "Or was the wand a knife?"
Cassian didn't look back. "Don't know. When you figure that out, let me know."
∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur blinked, panting. The chamber around him blurred for a moment, the memory so vivid he could smell the nutmeg and cinnamon scent of the Golden Crust.
His fingers tightened around the wand.
"Was it a wand… or a knife?" he whispered.
Another tail strike—Arthur ducked, skidded, came up on one knee.
"What's the true form of a thing?"
The Basilisk let out a guttural roar, its massive form rearing for another charge.
Arthur didn't run.
He stared down at the wand.
And felt.
Magic. Raw and untamed. Coiled deep in his soul like fire pressed into the shape of a boy. All the training, all the beatdowns Cassian had delivered in those two brutal weeks, all the lessons about control and letting go at once.
He focused.
And without another word, he pushed that power into the wand.
It shuddered. The core blazed blue. Cold surged through his palm—and then—
It shifted.
Not in a flicker of sparks, but in a slow, inevitable transformation.
The wand lengthened. Silver gleamed along its edge. The wood cracked, then flowed like liquid into polished metal. A blue gemstone pulsed in the hilt like a frozen flame. And carved into the blade, clear as frost on glass, was a name:
Silas Reeves.
Arthur's heartbeat slowed.
He wasn't just a student.
He was a Reeves.
This—this—was his inheritance.
Tom's voice broke through the stillness, sharp with surprise for the first time.
"That's Impossible" he hissed.
Arthur rose to his feet, sword gleaming, eyes blazing.
"Yeah? Tell that to the thing behind me."
The Basilisk struck again, faster than before.
But Arthur was ready.
He moved—not with panic, not with fear—but with intent. His blade sliced through the air, magic trailing behind it like a comet. The serpent met him with open jaws, fangs dripping with death.
Arthur met it with steel and —well—cold.
Predator.
Versus predator.
This time?
He wasn't prey.
Arthur gripped the silver blade with both hands, the name Silas Reeves still glowing faintly on its surface.
Tom was watching now—really watching.
His smug confidence faltered. The Basilisk circled again, blindly searching, but it slowed. Maybe it sensed something had shifted. Maybe it felt it too.
The air had gone cold.
Not from the ancient chamber.
Not from the beast.
But from Arthur.
At first, he didn't notice it. Focused as he was on the basilisk, on keeping breathing despite the pain in his ribs. But the moment he planted his foot into the cracked tiles and stepped forward, sword drawn—he saw it.
Frost.
Blooming beneath his feet.
The edge of the blade shimmered—not with heat, but with a faint, pale blue aura. Trails of mist curled around the hilt, gathering like spirits awakened.
"What the hell…" Arthur muttered.
He blinked—his breath fogged.
It was happening again.
That feeling.
The same sensation he'd had the year before—just for a second—when he stood between Voldemort and the Stone, when everything had gone still in his mind and the world had quieted.
He hadn't remembered what happened that night.
Until now.
The air shifted.
Frost began to creep up the stone walls, snaking like veins.
White light shimmered around Arthur's shoulders—not fire. Not flame.
A blinding, icy brilliance.
Arthur remembered ice on the stones. A thin sheen, like frozen starlight, spreading from his fingers. Voldemort's fire had flickered, stalled.
He hadn't understood it then.
He did now.
Cryomancy.
"Of course," he whispered. "Because freezing in battle is such a Reeves thing to do."
He almost smiled. Almost.
The Basilisk lunged.
Arthur moved faster.
The sword whistled through the air, trailing frost with every swing. The cold wasn't a curse—it was a weapon. Ice bloomed where his feet touched the floor. Crystals shimmered where the blade cut the air. Every move was silent, precise, still.
Predator met predator.
Flesh met steel.
And ice—
Met rage.
He rolled beneath the Basilisk's strike, slashed across the underbelly, and came up near its flank. The monster thrashed, but Arthur was no longer dodging blindly. He was flowing—like snowmelt over stone. He struck again—this time at a fang, shattering it.
Chunks of ice erupted from the broken pieces, freezing into the open wound.
Tom screamed—whether in anger or disbelief, Arthur couldn't tell.
This was the legacy of the Reeves.
And something in him was awakening.
The final blow hadn't come yet.
But for the first time, Arthur could feel it coiling inside him.
Not rage.
Not fire.
Stillness.