The front of Ilvermorny Castle buzzed with life — laughter, shuffling boots, sniffling noses, and the crisp bite of mountain air. It was that awkward stretch before tradition kicked in, where no one quite knew where to stand, so everyone stood somewhere.
Among the small crowd of students were the Reeves siblings, clustered loosely near the front steps. Vivienne, sharp-eyed and ever observant, was quietly judging people from beneath her thick wool scarf. Thirteen-year-old Micah kept close, tossing glances toward the towering castle doors like he expected something dramatic to come bursting through.
Beside them stood Arthur, cousin to the Reeves, looking more like a misplaced exchange student than someone born into their eccentric lineage. He was tall, lean, and still adjusting to being back in America after Hogwarts. Next to him, Liam, all nerves and questions, tried to look like he belonged in a world he'd only read about.
"Do you think it's going to be like the British Sorting?" Arthur asked, arms crossed against the cold.
"No idea," Liam replied, tugging his sleeves down. "But I hope it doesn't involve hats that talk."
Micah snorted.
Behind them, a few other first-years and transfers fidgeted and murmured, all waiting for the same thing — for someone to officially acknowledge they'd arrived.
The returning students, including the Reeves siblings, excluding Daniel and Dorian[ who had broken free from the group], had been told to wait with the rest until the prefects came out. There was a kind of reverence to it. Ilvermony didn't just open its doors — it welcomed you when it was ready.
Then, with the kind of timing that made everyone straighten up instinctively, the grand oak doors creaked open.
From the shadowed hall beyond stepped three figures.
At the rear, still looking too casual for the occasion in his scuffed brown jacket and loosely buttoned shirt, was Daniel Reeves, twenty and stubbornly unbothered by formal events. The faint smell of peppermint and dragonhide trailed behind him.
Ahead of him, walking with precise, almost theatrical purpose, was the Head Prefect — Derwin Tallus — robes crisp, posture military, expression unreadable.
And beside him, trying very hard to look equally dignified and only half-succeeding, was Dorian Reeves, now fitted in a freshly-pressed Thunderbird-badged robe, badge gleaming at a slightly crooked angle.
Arthur watched as Dorian fumbled with the pin, trying to discreetly straighten it before Derwin slapped his hand away with a sigh.
"You had one job," Derwin muttered.
"I was trying to adjust it."
"You looked like you were about to juggle it."
"I can actually juggle," Dorian replied smugly.
"Not the point."
Vivienne leaned toward Micah with a whisper. "They've already started bickering, and we haven't even entered."
Arthur smirked. "Business as usual, then."
Daniel finally stepped forward, addressing the small group.
"Welcome, everyone," he said, voice casual but clear. "If you're hearing me, you're either brand new or too curious for your own good. Either way — glad to have you."
He gave a nod to the rest of the waiting students, including the Reeves. "Returning students may now proceed inside. Your welcome address will be in the Great Hall shortly."
The older students began to move toward the open doors, breaking from their little groups. Vivienne gave Micah a quick shoulder squeeze before following. Dorian, however, lingered.
Arthur turned to Liam. "Here we go."
As the Reeves siblings and the others vanished into the warmth of the castle, Arthur and Liam remained behind — along with a few wide-eyed eleven-year-olds and an older girl clutching a transfer form.
Daniel gestured to Dorian and Derwin. "They'll take it from here."
Dorian turned toward Arthur and Liam with that familiar spark in his eye.
"Alright, first-timers. Welcome to the weirdest, wildest school this side of the Atlantic. I'm Dorian Reeves — Thunderbird, Seventh Year, and Assistant Head Prefect, which basically means I get to wear this shiny badge and pretend I know what I'm doing."
He tried for a bow, nearly dropped the badge again, and muttered, "Damn pin."
Derwin stepped up beside him. "Derwin Tallus. Wampus. Head Prefect. Ignore him unless he says something actually useful. Which happens once a year."
Liam looked frozen.
Dorian inched closer to them.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You've got a badge now?"
Dorian grinned. "Yup."
"World's ending."
"Probably."
Daniel, already turning away toward the doors, called back without looking, "Don't scare them, Dorian."
"No promises."
And with that, Daniel disappeared into the castle, leaving the Sorting in the hands of thunder and order.
And then, just like that, Dorian stood at the front, with Derwin.
For a brief moment, he wore a soft grin as his friends passed — heads nodding, fingers raised in silent greetings, some calling his name. Familiar faces. Inside jokes. Shared duels and dorm-room whispers.
Then his smile faded.
Something shifted. His back straightened. His hands folded behind him. His jaw set in quiet authority.
Arthur blinked. It was a version of Dorian Reeves he'd never seen before — focused, cool, unnervingly adult.
"This must be one of those 'once a year' moments Derwin warned us about," he thought.
The wind swirled around them, catching the long coattails of Dorian's robes. The other bonded beasts — giant familiars, shimmering and half-unseen — had already faded from view. All except one.
Alpha, Arthur's bonded creature, lingered just beyond the steps. A massive lupine shape with amber eyes, barely visible through the mist. The beast's gaze locked on Arthur. Hurt flickered behind those animal eyes, like a child watching a friend leave.
And then it was gone — dissolving into the trees, leaving only tension behind.
Dorian stepped forward.
His voice rang out clear, amplified not by magic, but by confidence.
"Welcome," he said, scanning the small gathering of first-years and transfers. "To those of you standing here, you are officially the last to enter. Everyone else has gone before you — and that's important."
His gaze lingered on a boy fiddling with his sleeves. "Because here, we value patience."
"You'll enter the Great Hall shortly to begin your Sorting. You will stand before four statues — Wampus, Thunderbird, Horned Serpent, and Pukwudgie — and they will choose whether to claim you. If more than one calls, you choose where you belong. If none do..." he paused, "...you'll be guided."
Some students tensed. Arthur noticed Liam clutching his sleeve again.
Dorian continued, crisp and deliberate. "Now, some rules. You've all heard about them, but I'll say it anyway because you will be held accountable."
"One: No magic is to be used outside sanctioned classes or training spaces without a supervisor. Accidents have happened before. They don't end in trophies."
"Two: Beasts and bonded companions must remain tethered outside the castle unless otherwise permitted. They are not pets. They are sentient. They are bound to you — but not your whims."
A girl raised her hand, but Dorian didn't stop.
"Three, and most important — order."
His voice dropped slightly, weight settling behind the word.
"There is a reason Ilvermorny stands after all these years. There is a reason we are still open, still strong. That reason is discipline. Order. Respect for the hierarchy that keeps chaos outside these walls."
He took a step down from the landing, boots echoing on the polished stone.
"Any deliberate deviation from that... and you may find yourselves outside down that mountain faster than you arrived. Some mistakes cost points. Others cost expulsion."
Silence. Even the wind paused.
Then, with a subtle nod to Derwin — who had silently taken his post to the side — Dorian raised his arm and gestured toward the glowing entrance.
"The Sorting awaits."
Arthur nudged Liam. "He really is someone else in that uniform."
Liam whispered, "Didn't think your cousin could scare you more than the thunderbird statue we saw on the gate."
Arthur chuckled, but the weight of what came next settled on both their shoulders.
Behind them, the doors closed gently, sealing the path forward.
∆∆∆∆∆∆
The heavy doors shut behind them with a muffled thud, and suddenly the wind and voices from outside faded — replaced by stillness.
The Entrance Hall was massive.
Smooth grey tiles gleamed underfoot, cool and pristine like untouched mountain stone. Ancient tapestries floated midair along the towering walls — not nailed or pinned, but suspended by a quiet, watching magic. They rippled softly as though breathing — each one capturing scenes of myth and legend: a witch riding a storm, a horned serpent whispering into a child's ear, a great beast made of roots roaring beneath a moon, a figure wielding fire atop a crumbling tower.
Arthur's breath caught.
"It's... different from Hogwarts."
"Feels like the floor's staring at me," Liam whispered.
They weren't wrong.
At the far end of the entrance hall, wide oak doors — already open — revealed glimpses of the Main Hall beyond. They could see students already seated on long benches. No house banners. No coordinated robes. Just anticipation.
The rest of the Reeves had gone ahead.
Micah had thrown Arthur a quick wink and shouted, "Don't explode anything!" before jogging off with Vivienne, who offered a soft smile to Liam and a whispered, "You'll be fine."
Then they disappeared into the crowd of returning students, swallowed by the ancient mouth of the school.
Now, Arthur and Liam remained.
Dorian stood at the threshold, all pretense of relaxed big-brother gone. His Thunder uniform was crisp, robe fastened at the shoulders by the new badge he still wore awkwardly — assistant head prefect. The gleaming pin caught the torchlight as though it wasn't sure it belonged there.
For a second, Dorian's eyes locked with Arthur's. Then, just as quickly, his gaze swept past him — professional, official.
It was time.
Dorian stepped aside. "Go."
Arthur and Liam moved forward.
Behind them, the other first-timers clustered in hesitant silence — a girl with dark braids muttering a prayer under her breath; a redheaded boy clutching a carved wooden pendant; a tall girl from Sierra Leone wearing a woven bracelet of storm-colored thread.
And ahead?
History.
The Great Hall
The Great Hall was nothing like Hogwarts.
The ceiling didn't pretend to be the sky — it was the sky. No barrier. No enchantment. Just air and altitude, framed by the soaring skeletal beams of the vaulted roof. Wind slipped through unseen cracks and brushed their cheeks. Stars glittered in the high distance.
Torches burned blue along the columns.
The four Guardian statues stood at the center of the hall — massive and divine. Not stiff like museum relics, but dynamic, poised, breathing the stillness of old gods.
The Wampus, crouched low with a warrior's grace.
The Horned Serpent, rising with eerie serenity.
The Pukwudgie, unimpressed, arms crossed.
The Thunderbird, wings half-folded, lightning flickering silently across its beak and chest like veins of fire beneath skin.
The Sorting was silent.
There was no Sorting Hat. No music. No fanfare.
Only a voice.
A single professor — tall, sharp-nosed, with gray streaks in his beard — stepped forward, a thin scroll in his hand.
He read:
"Liam Reeves."
Liam jumped.
Arthur whispered, "Go on. Don't faint."
Liam stepped up to the platform, shoes scuffing softly.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then — the Wampus statue growled. A low, steady vibration in the stones. Golden light shimmered around Liam's feet.
But — the Thunderbird stirred too.
Its wings twitched once, sparks raining gently like snow.
The light on the platform split — a choice.
Two paths. Two Guardians. The Wampus and the Thunderbird.
Liam gulped and stepped toward the Wampus. The golden light flared in welcome. The statue didn't move, but the growl deepened with a certain pride.
The Wampus table cheered softly. A fourth-year girl with green eyes slapped the bench and pulled him down beside her. "Welcome, Reeves. I'm Kella."
Liam beamed, stunned.
The name continued.
"Faris Omondi."
A lanky boy from Nairobi with salt-and-pepper eyes — chosen by the Horned Serpent.
"Delilah Kingsley."
A quiet girl with ink-stained fingers — swept instantly into Pukwudgie, no question.
"Akari Yamada."
A soft-spoken girl from Tokyo — walked straight into the Wampus' call, grinning.
"Simeon Thatch."
Twin calls from Serpent and Wampus — he chose Serpent, still trembling.
Then came:
"Arthur Reeves."
The name rang like a thunderclap across the Great Hall.
Silence. Even the wind paused.
Arthur's heart punched his ribs. He stood — slowly, stiffly — and walked toward the platform. He felt the air shift, like stepping into a storm cloud. Every eye was on him, including the staff who watched from their long stone table at the end of the hall. One man, robed in dusk-grey and trimmed in silver, leaned slightly forward — eyes narrowed. A Professor Ignatius, maybe. No... Looks like Crowley.
He didn't care. His skin was humming.
The moment he stepped onto the platform, the air crackled.
The Thunderbird statue's wings snapped open, the blue lightning lashing in arcs down its body, flickering over Arthur's boots.
Then the Horned Serpent stirred — eyes lighting up like twin moons, coils shifting beneath the tiles with a sound like grinding earth.
Gasps.
Then — a third movement.
The Wampus bared its teeth.
And the Pukwudgie — ancient, scowling — inclined its head in acknowledgment.
More gasps. Not whispers now. Shock. Awe. Panic.
All four.
All four had called to him.
Even the professors were standing now. One of them — a tall dark-skinned woman in crimson robes with streaks of silver in her hair — muttered something and looked toward the others at the staff table. Another just scribbled frantically on a parchment, watching him like a hawk recording a phenomenon.
Arthur felt the magic stretch taut around him. His boots hovered barely a hair's breadth above the ground — a faint hum in his bones.
He wasn't breathing.
He blinked.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
His uncle, Cassian, had prepped him for a lot of things. Dangerous hexes. Strange magical beasts. Political pitfalls.
But not this.
Certainly not this.
Cassian had definitely skipped the "what to do when four ancient magical guardians choose you simultaneously" part of the syllabus.
Arthur muttered under his breath, "Thanks, Uncle Cass. Super helpful."
The students were whispering now. Tension buzzed like flies over honey.
Then a voice — loud, female — rang from somewhere to the left:
"Just pick one already!"
Arthur snapped his head up, eyes narrowing. "Don't rush me, okay?!" He turned back to the statues, exhaling through his nose. "This isn't some magical speed-date."
Laughter broke the tension — nervous and thin. Even a few staff members cracked smiles.
Arthur shut his eyes.
What would Daniel do?
His older cousin would probably smirk and say something annoyingly profound before making a grand choice that somehow ended in applause.
What about Dorian? Vivienne? Micah?
He frowned.
None of them had ever faced this. Not that he knew
When Arthur got overwhelmed, his mind tended to retreat. Search itself like a library flipping pages. Looking for something—anything—that might help.
And something did surface.
His wand.
Cassian had given it to him the summer before third year. With no pomp. Just dropped the box onto his desk and walked off saying, "It'll suit you."
Arthur had opened it, puzzled.
Wood: Ironwood – with a rare Storm-Forged Finish that shimmered dark grey-blue under lightning.
Core: Thunderbird Feather and Basilisk Heartstring.
Length: 14¼ inches.
Flexibility: Slightly Unyielding.
His wand wasn't just powerful.
It was a walking contradiction. Dual-natured. Elemental and deadly. A storm and a serpent.
Classic.
He'd literally killed a basilisk last spring. Saved a few second-years doing it, too. Barely made it out alive.
And now?
The choice was staring him in the face. Curling around his ankles in electric warmth. Calling him.
He heard his father was a Thunderbird.
Of course he was.
Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Oh, very convenient," he muttered. "This is clearly a setup."
He looked again at the glowing paths beneath his feet, each pulsing with their own kind of magic.
Then he stepped forward.
Toward the Thunderbird.
The lightning at his feet welcomed him — curling up his boots like ivy, harmless but charged with excitement. The statue's wings lowered slightly in approval.
As he walked off the platform, soft applause followed — hesitant, then more confident. Some of the staff even nodded.
He walked to the Thunderbird table, head held high, but mind still spinning.
He sat down near the middle — heart thudding like a distant drum. He couldn't even hear the next name called.
"Welcome," someone said.
He turned.
A girl. Elegant posture. Long dark hair braided to one side. Maybe his age — or a bit older.
And familiar.
Wait a minute—
"You were the one yelling at me," Arthur accused, squinting. "Why do you look so obscenely satisfied?"
She smirked. "Because most who are called by all four end up choosing the Serpent. It's... easier. Less wild. More predictable."
"Sounds boring."
"Exactly," she said, tilting her head. "Thunderbirds are reckless."
"I prefer the term brilliantly spontaneous."
She snorted. "You'll fit right in."
Around them, more names were called, more paths lit up. But for Arthur, the storm had already started.
And he'd just chosen to fly into it.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur had barely gotten comfortable at the Thunderbird table — still reeling from his house selection — when the rest of the names were called in rapid succession.
Some went with confidence. Others stumbled toward their choices, still unsure what it all meant. Serpent, Lion, Thunderbird, Stallion — the tables slowly filled as students found their place. Arthur noticed a few were crying. Others grinning. Some just looked dazed.
He wasn't the only transfer, but he felt like the only one who'd walked in blindfolded.
When the final student was seated, the golden lights dimmed slightly, and a hush fell over the hall as Professor Wren — tall, silver-eyed, and composed — stepped onto the raised dais.
She wore deep maroon robes threaded with storm-grey accents. Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the authority in it.
"Welcome," she began. "To all our new students — and to our transfers."
(Arthur swore she glanced directly at him during that word.)
"This school is not merely a place of learning. It is a crucible — a forge where potential is tested, shaped, and made worthy. You were not chosen lightly. And you are not here to simply exist."
She began pacing slowly.
"Our institution thrives on tradition, excellence, and order. Your prefects may have told you some of our rules. But let me clarify something they may have softened: this school does not tolerate mediocrity, recklessness, or rebellion for rebellion's sake."
Her words crackled like thunderclouds held just at bay.
"Everything you do here matters. Every word. Every spell. Every choice."
Then she raised a single finger, and with a flick, the IBPS logo shimmered above them in golden light.
THE INDIVIDUAL-BASED POINT SYSTEM
"Every student here begins with 20 personal points. These are not favors. They are not gifts. They are reflections — of your starting potential. Of who you are, and who you might become."
She held up a silver badge — small, gleaming, with glowing notches around its rim.
"This is your House Badge. From today forward, it is bound to you. And it knows."
Arthur's badge pulsed once on his chest, faintly warm. Badge? He looked down. This wasn't there before.
"When you gain a point, you'll feel it. A subtle warmth in the chest. A glow. A whisper of pride.
When you lose a point, you'll feel that too. Cold. Hollow. Like the school itself is watching."
The students began glancing down at their badges. Most were still glowing faintly with their initial 20 — a full circle of ten elegant lines.
Wren's tone sharpened.
"The highest score ever recorded is 100. The lowest is -20 — and that... that leads to restriction, humiliation, or even expulsion."
The air grew heavy.
"But the catch?" she asked, smiling thinly.
"Your house's fate rests on you. Your rise lifts them. Your fall... drags them all down."
Some students audibly swallowed.
Wren snapped her fingers, and the hall briefly lit up with visual examples:
A badge half-lit — five faint lines. "Mediocre."
A badge blazing — ten full lines and a glowing ring. "Promising."
A badge cracked with dark lines. "Below ten. Trouble."
A badge bleeding red lines. "Negative. Dangerous."
A badge sealed with a harsh, cold brand. "-20. Final."
"Earn your points," she said simply. "Or suffer their loss."
She paused then, letting it settle like dust over stone.
"We demand order. And you will give it. But in return, this school will give you more than knowledge — it will give you power, belonging, and a legacy."
Her gaze moved again to Arthur — and others — before concluding:
"Welcome to Ilvermorny."