The late morning sun filtered lazily through the enchanted windows of Ilvermorny's transfiguration classroom, throwing golden hexagonal light across the tiled floor. Each pane shimmered with a slow-turning rune, humming softly as it adjusted to the room's magical flow.
Professor Rowen paced slowly between the rows of desks, her cloak trailing like fog behind her.
"Transfiguration, as you all know," she said, her voice crisp and deliberate, "is not about brute force. It's about finesse. Intent. Symmetry. If magic were music, this would be violin work—delicate strings, not percussive bangs."
Arthur sat beside Micah near the back, elbows resting on a polished surface that had once been a cauldron—Rowen liked using transfigured furniture as a way of "setting the mood." His wand lay in front of him, inert. He hadn't touched it since the bell rang.
Micah leaned in with a smirk. "You okay, Death Glare? You've been looking like you want to hex a brick wall since we got here."
Arthur didn't answer. His gaze was trained ahead, half-present, as though he were counting the bricks on the wall rather than listening to Rowen. Micah frowned and nudged him again.
"Hey. Arthur."
Arthur blinked. "What?"
"You're scaring the others" Micah whispered, tilting his head toward the front where a tiny Pukwudgie girl kept peeking nervously over her shoulder at them. "Chill. Just transfiguring stuff, not dueling with nightmares."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," Micah muttered. "But okay, let's go with that."
Professor Rowen clapped her hands. "We'll start with review. Five items. Basic transfigurations—no showboating, no improvisations. Just technique. Grouped pairs, desk by desk."
The class buzzed with casual activity. Arthur and Micah were paired. As usual.
First: parchment to stone—Arthur managed it with a subtle flick, the scroll curling into a smooth river pebble. Micah gave an exaggerated applause.
Second: quill to paper bird. Micah's bird flapped excitedly and exploded in glitter; Arthur's flew straight to Rowen's desk and perched smugly.
Third: apple to inkwell. A little splashy, but passable.
Fourth: their own robes to invisibility cloaks—temporary, of course. Micah looked thrilled to disappear for five seconds and then reappear with a dramatic gasp. Arthur barely reacted.
Then the final one: button to beetle
It was supposed to be an easy spell.
"You've all done this before," she said. "Simple object-to-object transmutation. A button into a beetle. Intent and clarity. Focus. That's all."
Arthur Reeves sat at the back, elbow propped on his desk, wand in hand, eyes half-lidded like he was barely awake. He was surrounded by murmurs—the usual pre-spell nerves of classmates—but his mind wasn't here. Not really.
Arthur blinked. Right. A button into a beetle.
He flicked his wand casually, uttering the incantation. "Transmutatio Formica."
The texture, the way it looked—it reminded him of something.
The stadium.
The banners.
The scream of the Varnhound.
The button on his desk began to tremble—vibrating slightly.
Then it exploded.
Not into fire or frost. Not into shards. Just a sudden, violent pulse of raw magic—like a concussion wave without sound. The force blasted his chair backward, knocked his desk askew, and sent half the students within a ten-foot radius stumbling.
Someone screamed. Another student ducked. The mirrors along the far wall cracked—not shattered, but split down the middle with glowing fault lines.
Arthur hit the ground hard. For a moment, there was only ringing in his ears and the smell of ozone. The air tingled, thick with backlash. His wand rolled away, clinking across the tiles.
Professor Rowen was at his side in seconds, wand raised defensively, eyes scanning the room. "Clear the area! Everyone out, now!"
Arthur sat up, dazed. He looked at his hands. No burns. No frost. No glow. Just... trembling fingers.
He didn't understand.
Professor Rowen turned sharply, wand drawn. "Arthur Reeves!"
"I—I didn't mean—" His voice broke. His hands were trembling. His heart felt like it had leapt into his throat.
Micah stood too, defensive. "It wasn't like he aimed at anyone! It just—lashed out!"
Professor Rowen's expression shifted. Not anger. Something worse. Caution.
She stepped forward, murmured a grounding charm, and looked directly into Arthur's eyes. "Have you had any magical surges recently?"
Arthur blinked. "No. I mean... not really."
Micah scoffed. "Define really."
Rowen's voice softened. "Arthur. You're not in trouble. But that wasn't unstable spellwork. That was buried magic. You didn't channel it—it channeled you."
The whole class had gone quiet now, attention like heat pressed into his back.
He hated it.
Arthur mumbled something and quickly gathered his things.
Professor Rowen didn't stop him when he asked to be dismissed.
The corridors felt colder than usual. Magic still hummed under his skin, like something was scratching from the inside.
He walked blindly until the hall opened into the Thunderbird common room—bright and cloud-streaked, like an open sky bottled into a building.
And Evelyne was there.
She was perched by the skyglass arch, reading. Her head turned as soon as he entered.
"How are you even here? I just saw you in class."
She closed her book. "If I told you, I would have to kill you."
He rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. "Great."
Evelyne didn't smile. "You okay?"
Arthur didn't answer right away. She stood and crossed the room—her robe whispering with that strange silver-blue shimmer, like clouds rolled beneath her feet.
"You're not dangerous," she said, gently. "You're cracked. Like a wand under pressure."
He gave a dry laugh. "That's comforting."
She stopped in front of him. "Want to sit?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
They sank into one of the large Thunderbird couches—cloud-woven and soft. The hum of sky magic in the air always seemed to calm most students. Arthur barely noticed it.
"I didn't try to break anything.... Not everything," he muttered.
"I know."
"I just saw the button and—everything from the match came back. I don't get it though. A button? Give me a break."
She nodded, slow and patient.
"You're not weak for flinching at what hurt you," she said. "That's human."
Arthur looked at her then. Really looked.
The crisp white of her shirt. The storm-piped edges of her skirt. That glowing compass at her waist. She didn't look like a student. She looked like the sky decided to take human form and wear a badge.
"How do you do it?" he asked, voice low.
"Do what?"
"Stay... together. When everything feels like it's pulling you apart?"
She shrugged. "I don't. I just hide it well. Sky people, remember? We're always falling—but we do it with flair."
Arthur stared out the window.
"I think I'm falling too."
Evelyne didn't speak. She just leaned closer, close enough that her shoulder brushed his.
And for the first time since the attack... Arthur didn't feel alone. Although that didn't stop him from going to his room.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The storm outside had long since passed, but Wren's office still felt like the center of one.
Not the loud kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that waited.
Outside her window, clouds dragged their bellies across the sky, fat and bruised, as if the storm had merely retreated to regroup. The glass panes wept with lingering rain, and somewhere in the castle's bones, thunder groaned in remembrance.
A small fire crackled in the hearth—not enough to banish the cold, just enough to remind her it was there.
Beside her, resting like a sleeping curse, was the folder.
Aged. Frayed. Labeled in deep, clinical ink: Project Silverfang.
She hadn't opened it since Ignatius left it behind, almost carelessly, as though the weight of what it contained had become unbearable.
Wren stared at it now with folded hands and haunted eyes, her posture straight but her thoughts scattered—like windblown pages she couldn't catch.
A knock shattered the stillness.
She blinked, drew in a slow breath, and sat taller. "Enter."
The door creaked open with deliberate slowness. Derwin Tallus stepped inside as though he had rehearsed it. His posture was flawless, back unyielding, chin up. His prefect badge gleamed on his chest, polished until it could reflect the room's secrets.
He was followed—not quite gracefully—by Dorian Reeves, who moved like someone who was used to getting into places he shouldn't be, and out before anyone noticed. His robes were artfully rumpled. His grin, careless.
Wren didn't miss the faint cocoa smear at the corner of his mouth.
"Headmistress," Derwin said, offering a nod that was nearly a bow.
"Got your owl," Dorian announced, sprawling into the seat across from her like it owed him rent. "It interrupted what might've been the finest pudding moment of my life. So please, say this is urgent and involves illegal magic."
Wren allowed a tiny breath of amusement. "It's not illegal. But it may very well be dangerous."
Derwin, ever the prefect, shot his companion a sharp glance. "You could at least attempt to behave."
"I am behaving," Dorian said, lounging deeper. "Just... in my own unique dialect of obedience."
Wren raised a hand. They fell silent immediately, which pleased her more than she showed.
"You're both very different," she began, rising slowly. "Which is why you're both here."
Derwin looked honored. Dorian looked confused.
"I wasn't aware we were applying for anything," Dorian muttered.
"You weren't," Wren replied. She walked toward the tall arched windows, her fingers trailing across the back of an old armchair.
Outside, the trees leaned in the wind like listeners. The grey hush wrapped around the castle like a held breath.
"When I was your age," she said, voice gentler now, "three students roamed these halls like they were born from its stone. The Reeves siblings—Cassian, Selene, and Philip."
At the mention of the names, Dorian's face flickered—some mix of pride and pain hiding beneath the smirk.
"They were more than brilliant," Wren went on. "They were... elemental. Together, they could outduel half the staff. They balanced each other perfectly. But when Philip left for Hogwarts, something shifted."
"I've read about them," Derwin said softly. "They were legends."
Dorian didn't speak, but he sat up slightly straighter.
Wren turned back to them, eyes suddenly sharp. "Legends are dangerous things. They're often unfinished stories. Which brings me to yours."
She moved behind her desk and rested her hand on the Silverfang file.
Then, as if reconsidering, she pulled out another one—blank—and laid it gently on the surface.
"There are changes in this school. Things stirring beneath the surface. Arthur Reeves has been at the center of much of it—though not of his own making. And someone, I believe, wants him... undone."
Dorian sat up straighter now, all trace of playfulness gone.
"And you think you know who?"
"I suspect," she said, voice tightening, "that Professor Ignatius knows more than he's letting on."
There was a beat of silence.
Dorian snorted.
"Of course it's him. That man's been itching to flay a Reeves since his days as a junior dueling instructor. Once told me I had the 'chaos of Philip and none of the skill.' Wouldn't even look me in the eye during Wand Safety because, and I quote, 'The Reeves don't do safety. They inherit explosions.'"
"He wasn't entirely wrong," Derwin muttered.
"Rude, but fair," Dorian conceded with a shrug
Derwin frowned. "You're suggesting he's connected to what happened during the Varnhound attack?"
"I'm not suggesting anything publicly," Wren said carefully. "Not yet. Which is why I need the two of you."
"I want you both to observe. Discreetly. Not just Ignatius—but Arthur as well. Watch them. Where they go. Who they speak to. Any signs of coercion, concealment... or corruption."
Derwin nodded immediately. "We'll keep logs. No interference unless warranted."
"Exactly," Wren said. "You'll report directly to me. No one else."
Dorian's eyes narrowed. "Even he doesn't know?"
Wren paused.
"I think your father's truths are tangled in things even he doesn't fully understand anymore."
The boys were quiet.
She stepped closer, her voice dipping to something more intimate. "I'm not asking this lightly. This isn't a student patrol. It's a watch in shadows. Things are moving in this school—old, buried things."
Dorian sighed, folding his arms. "So... we're what now? The Spying Duo?"
"You're watchers," Wren said simply. "Call it what you like. But you're both clever. And loyal. And I trust you."
Dorian glanced at Derwin. "Well, at least I'm prettier."
Derwin rolled his eyes. "You're reckless and arrogant."
"And you're wound so tight, I can hear your honor code squeaking," Dorian shot back.
"Enough," Wren said, holding back a real smile this time. "You balance each other. That's the point."
The two boys exchanged a look. Not quite a truce, but something close to alliance.
As they turned to leave, Wren's voice followed them, soft but firm:
"Whatever's coming... it's moving fast. I don't know who's pulling the strings. But I fear this is no longer just about magical creatures or school politics."
At the door, Dorian paused and turned, expression unreadable.
"And if it comes down to choosing between blood and truth?"
Wren looked at him for a long moment.
"Then I hope you'll remember... not all blood is loyalty. And not all truth is safe."
They left in silence.
And for a while, Wren sat alone—listening to the fire crackle and the rain begin again.
When she finally opened the Silverfang file, her eyes went not to the top of the first page—but to the signature at the bottom.
It wasn't Cassian's.
It never had been.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The afternoon was quiet—deceptively so.
The grounds of Ilvermorny had settled into their usual lull after classes: students trickled toward the lake, some clustered near the forest to see their bonds, while others slipped into shade with books and snacks. Arthur walked the stone path near the northern hedge, the breeze teasing the edge of his robe as the sun clung to the horizon behind the tall turrets.
Alpha padded beside him, silent for the most part, but not unfriendly. Their rhythm was awkward at first—like two dance partners unsure who should lead—but there was less tension now. Less pulling.
"Still weird walking next to you like this," Arthur muttered. "You know... after the whole near-death-soul-bonded-warrior thing."
Alpha's ears flicked. "Still weird being bonded to a twiglet who nearly got me killed."
Arthur smirked. "Didn't hear you complaining when I gave you my last slice of roast yesterday."
"Pity gift. Tasted like shame."
Arthur snorted, nudging the wolf gently with his elbow. It had been days since they'd walked together like this. And for a moment, it almost felt... normal.
Until the silence shifted.
From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw a figure detach from the ivy-covered wall near the observatory archway. Robes pristine. Shoulders straight. Smile just a little too timed.
Professor Ignatius.
Arthur instinctively stepped to the other side of Alpha, putting the wolf between them—not that it'd help if the man decided to go full Quirrel 2.0.
"Arthur," Ignatius greeted smoothly, hands behind his back like a man preparing to deliver a eulogy or a wedding toast. "You're walking better. I'm glad."
Oh wow, Arthur thought. A whole sentence without glaring at my last name. A new record.
"Wish I could say the same," Arthur said aloud.
Ignatius smiled as if they were old chess partners meeting for tea. "I know this must be a strange time for you."
Right, Arthur thought. Because near-death experiences, magical conspiracies, and cryptic family drama are just a regular Tuesday.
"I'm used to strange," he muttered.
Ignatius tilted his head. "I thought now would be a good time to clear the air."
Arthur's left brow twitched. That's it. He's definitely rehearsed this in the mirror.
"You've heard things," Ignatius continued. "Rumors. Family secrets. I imagine you're confused."
"Confused," Arthur echoed. "Yeah. Confused why you're still talking to me like we're on the same team."
The man's face didn't twitch, but his smile grew... pitying. Which somehow made it worse.
"I know your uncle. Cassian Reeves was once the Department's brightest mind. Passionate. Gifted. But... like all brilliant men, sometimes ambition clouds judgment."
Wow, Arthur thought. Did he really just use the "fallen genius" cliché? What's next—"He flew too close to the sun"?
Ignatius produced a folder from his robes—weathered and too conveniently aged. He handed it over.
Arthur didn't move. So Alpha did. He snapped his jaw open slightly.
"Easy," Arthur muttered to the wolf. "We're in public. Bad press if you maul a professor."
Reluctantly, Arthur took the folder and flipped through it. Diagrams. Tables. Notes. Claims. Signatures.
All pointing to Cassian. All too perfect.
"You're saying... Cassian created hybrids?" Arthur asked slowly. "Like genetically mutated creatures?"
Ignatius gave a single nod. "He was obsessed with the Reeves bloodline. Thought your magic could bind any creature, any mind. A dangerous belief. He called it... 'Project Silverfang.'"
Arthur blinked. Really? That's the name? Sounds like a rejected villain fanclub.
"He believed you could forge the perfect bond," Ignatius went on. "But what he really wanted—what all men like him want—was control."
Arthur handed the folder back. "And you're just now sharing this because...?"
Ignatius didn't flinch. "Because you're changing. The signs are already showing. The silver in your hair. The bond's instability."
Alpha bared his teeth. Loud this time. A low, vibrating snarl that made two passing second-years do a double take.
Arthur glanced at the professor. "You know, if you're trying to be reassuring, you really suck at it."
Ignatius crouched slightly—not close enough to touch Alpha, but close enough that it felt... invasive.
"He's not your partner, Arthur. He's your leash."
That did it.
Arthur's voice dropped. "You left him. Alpha told me. You bonded with him, then dumped him the moment things got difficult. So don't pretend you understand."
Ignatius straightened slowly. "Emotions cloud judgment. I did what was necessary."
Arthur tilted his head. "So... you're admitting you're a manipulative, cold-blooded control freak?"
"Perspective," Ignatius replied calmly.
Arthur smiled. "Right. That's what all villains say before they explode."
Alpha snarled louder now. Arthur didn't stop him this time.
Ignatius stepped back. His voice dropped to a soft, dangerous timbre. "You'll see, Arthur. The truth always surfaces. One day, you'll thank me."
Arthur didn't reply.
But in his mind, he whispered:
"He's lying, isn't he?"
"Was there ever a doubt?" Alpha growled.
---
Meanwhile — Not far away, hidden between hedgerows...
Derwin, Wampus Head Prefect, stood tall and tense beside the shorter, far more fidgety figure of Dorian Reeves, whose entire body had angled forward like he was trying to shoot off like a jinxed arrow.
"He's lying through his slick little teeth," Dorian hissed under his breath. "I swear, one more word out of that Quirrell-knockoff and I'm frying his eyebrows off—"
Derwin held out an arm across Dorian's chest.
"Dorian. Stand. Down."
"But he's brainwashing my cousin!"
"He's not. Arthur's holding his own."
"I will detention my way through any rule book to go over there and punch that dude—"
"Say one more word and I'll transfigure your mouth shut."
Dorian growled under his breath but didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on Ignatius like a hawk about to dive.
And Derwin, ever calm, whispered:
"Let's just keep watching. And if that creep tries anything—anything—we'll be the first ones there."
Dorian cracked his knuckles. "Good. Because if he lays a finger on Arthur... I'm setting something on fire."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The cell was exactly what you'd expect from MACUSA's top-tier containment wing—clean, cold, and humming quietly with layered enchantments meant to cage the dangerous, not just the guilty.
Cassian Reeves sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-open file balanced on his knee. Notes sprawled around him in neat, concentric spirals like the remnants of a lecture he'd been teaching to himself. The runes on the walls pulsed dimly—scarlet, gold, violet—indicating emotional stress, magical baseline, and containment stabilization.
He didn't care.
He turned another page. Skimmed a sentence.
Silver-marked. Non-categorized. Attack profile: coordinated. Targets selected via blood resonance.
"Hmph," he muttered. "So it begins."
A soft knock—just two taps. Then the barrier at the front shimmered faintly.
Elaine Margrave stepped in, not wearing her Director's cloak. No fanfare. No badge. Just a storm-grey coat over an old plum blouse he remembered from their early field years —back when magical beasts and love, not politics, consumed their lives.
She didn't say anything at first. Just stared at him from the other side of the transparent ward.
"You look like crap," she said at last.
Cassian offered a dry smile. "And you look like someone who doesn't want to admit she was wrong."
Elaine scoffed. "Please. You'd be the first to gloat if it were the other way around."
"True."
She sighed and walked forward, the leather of her boots barely making a sound on the polished stone. She didn't come to the edge of the barrier. She sat down just outside it, knees cracking with quiet protest.
"So how are you holding up down here, Cass? I hear the food's bad."
"I've had worse," he said. "At least I get a pillow. And all the light reading I could ever want." He held up one of the files. "They even left me a pen. That's dangerous, right?"
Elaine allowed a faint smirk. "You always did prefer paper to wands."
Cassian set the folder down, watching her carefully. "You should've stayed away."
She arched a brow. "Why? Afraid I'd scold you for not telling me about Silverfang?"
"Would you have believed me if I did?"
Pause. Long one.
"No," she admitted quietly. "But I would've helped you."
His face didn't change. But he looked away—just for a second.
"Doesn't matter now. I know too much, so I'm here. Makes sense." He leaned his head against the glowing rune behind him. "Which means... there's a mole. Someone upstairs. Probably in your office. So congratulations, Director. You've got a traitor."
Elaine's face didn't change either. "I know."
"You need to find them, Ellie. Fast."
She reached into her coat and slid a note through a slit in the barrier—a tiny brass delivery flap charmed for low-risk contraband.
He unfolded it.
Creature report. Skirmish near the northeastern border. Markings described as silver-fanged. New species. Not logged. Not born.
"Hybrids," Cassian muttered. "Bastards are building them faster now."
Elaine nodded. Her voice dipped lower. "They're not after you anymore."
Cassian didn't look up.
"They're after him."
Cassian closed the folder, the magic around the cell dimming faintly as if responding to his focus.
"Then it's started. Took him long enough."
Elaine looked puzzled. "Who? A professor?"
Cassian shook his head. "No. Him. Same as last time. He's moving again. And this time, I won't be the one facing him."
Elaine leaned forward. "You mean the one behind Silverfang? The one from years ago?"
Cassian nodded once. "I dueled him. Nearly caught him once. Never saw his face... But the way he moved, the way he spoke..." His voice grew quieter. "He knew us. Knew the Reeves. Said it was all just a prologue."
"And now?"
He looked at her, finally. "Now he's writing the chapters."
Silence fell between them.
Elaine stood up slowly. Her expression was unreadable. But just before she turned to leave, the outer door creaked open again.
Cassian looked up, brows furrowed.
A woman stepped through.
She wasn't wearing official robes. Her brown coat was travel-worn. Wind had caught her hair in knots. But her eyes—quiet grey and storm-set—locked instantly with his.
Elaine stepped aside. "She insisted."
Cassian's breath caught in his throat. "Lenora..."
His wife smiled faintly. "So. You get locked up, and I get the house to myself. Convenient."
Cassian blinked once. Then chuckled softly. "Don't start, Lenny. I'm only in here for espionage and mythical beast conspiracy."
"Sounds about right," she said, stepping closer.
Elaine stepped back. "I'll give you two a moment."
As the Director left, the runes on the wall shifted hue—warmer now. Calmer.
Cassian stood. And for the first time in days, he let himself soften.