The dormitory was silent. The kind of silence that didn't invite peace—but reminded him that silence had weight.
Arthur Reeves opened his eyes to grey light bleeding through the high, arched windows. Dust floated in it like forgotten thoughts. His sheets were cool. Neat. Untouched by restlessness.
Arthur sat up. His feet touched the cold floor with mechanical precision. His gaze scanned the empty room. No movement. No clutter. No warmth.
Good.
He didn't hate the quiet. He didn't mind the space. But even he could admit it felt… hollow. Like a shell of a thing that once knew purpose.
He stood, stretched absently, and headed for the bath chamber. The mirror greeted him with sharp clarity—too clear. He paused mid-step.
The streaks of silver had spread.
At his temples. Along the sides. Subtle, but unmistakable now. Silver-white slashes through coal-dark hair.
Arthur grimaced.
He remembered this feeling.
The last time his hair had changed, it was during the battle against the basilisk in chamber of secrets. The cold in his veins had grown teeth that day. His cryomancy had awakened—but so had something else.
Not power. Not clarity.
Emptiness.
He'd fought like a ghost. Felt nothing. Heard everything through a fog. He'd moved with brutal efficiency, untouched by pain or mercy.
Afterwards, it had taken days for his voice to sound like his own again.
And now?
He stared at his reflection. At the stillness in his eyes. No flicker. No regret. No anger. No grief.
He was a Metamorphmagus. Emotion was supposed to trigger physical reaction. Color, shift, expression. Something.
He waited.
Come on. Feel something.
His skin remained unchanged. His irises remained dull steel. His breath fogged the mirror faintly, but that was all.
Arthur reached down, turned the faucet, and let the icy water run. He bent forward, splashing his face, scrubbing at the edges of fatigue.
No emotion came.
No shift.
Only the whisper of cold sliding deeper into his bones.
He shut the water off. Straightened.
And walked out without a sound.
Walking to class, Arthur passed groups of students laughing, teasing, smiling. Just... living.
It had been a long time since he felt any of that.
Then, he saw it.
A flash of red.
He stopped, eyes scanning the courtyard. But there was nothing—just students and stone. Blossoms rustling lazily in the spring air.
What the hell was that?
And then, like something had been triggered inside him, his temperature began to drop. Fast.
He glanced at his hands. Frost was creeping around his fingers, delicate and thin like spiderwebs of ice.
Not again...
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked briskly—eyes searching. He needed somewhere private. Somewhere empty.
He found it almost immediately. An abandoned classroom, half-lit by slanted beams of morning light.
He slipped inside, shut the door, and walked straight into the sunlight.
It probably wouldn't work. He knew that.
But he had to try.
Then... he heard it.
Inside his head.
"Why do you resist, Damian?"
The voice was cold. Familiar.
Damian—his middle name.
Only two people had ever called him that. Sirius. And his mother.
And this thing—this presence—was neither.
Arthur gritted his teeth. "Get out of my head," he whispered, holding on, pushing back.
The air thickened. The chill deepened.
But he didn't break.
Not this time.
And then—silence. The presence withdrew. Vanished, like a retreating tide.
He exhaled slowly, hands still shaking.
The frost was gone.
But not everything had faded. The grey still streaked his hair—silent proof of what lingered underneath.
He wasn't fully back to normal.
And then—like jumping from the frying pan into fire—the classroom door creaked open.
Professor Ignatius.
Of course.
"What are you doing here, Reeves? Something illegal?"
Arthur had had enough. Of the voice. Of the silence. Of people like him.
The words came out before he could filter them.
"What's your deal, man? Like... what exactly is it?"
Ignatius narrowed his eyes, smirking. "You. A Reeves. That's the problem. Twisted blood. Cursed."
Arthur let out a dry laugh. "Nah. I think it's more than that."
He stepped forward, voice low. "This is about Alpha, isn't it?"
For a moment, just a breath, Ignatius flinched.
Then the smirk returned, sharper this time.
"I will get you, Reeves, eventually. And yes—yes, I hate you because of the dog. But I've found new ones now. Better ones. More loyal. And very soon, your precious little family will pay."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Huh. You lost me there. That's a lot of words... and threats."
Ignatius groaned in frustration, clearly not used to being spoken to like this. He turned to leave—
Then stopped at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.
"I'm taking five points from you. For disrespecting a teacher."
Arthur stepped forward, about to protest—but before he could speak, he felt it.
The badge on his uniform flickered.
Five half-lines vanished from his badge.
He stared at it.
The number burned into his memory: 35 points. Now down to thirty. Points he'd earned.
Gone.
And with that came something he hadn't felt in days. Maybe weeks.
Anger.
It surged through him like wildfire.
His hair burst into red—bright, raw, furious.
It wasn't just for the points.
It was everything.
The abilities. The whispers. The weight of being a Reeves. All of it.
He took a breath. Slowed it. Controlled it.
The anger didn't fade—but he didn't douse it either. He kept the red.
Just for today, he thought.
He'd be a red-headed Reeves. Let the school wonder.
He watched as Ignatius walked out, back stiff, the door creaking closed behind him.
Arthur stood in the silence. Alone again. But no longer numb.
This time, he felt something.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Third-Year Magical Philosophy Class, Tower Level 4.
Time of Day: Afternoon
The old brass pendulum at the far end of the room ticked back and forth, suspended in midair, its motion hypnotic. The Magical Philosophy classroom was more of a hall than a room—built like an old lecture theatre, with concentric descending rows of worn desks and chairs carved with student graffiti spanning decades. The ceiling above mirrored the sky, bewitched to match the time of day, and the current hue was a sleepy spring blue.
Arthur Reeves sat in the upper row, his head slightly bowed, red strands of hair casting shadows across his pale brow. His usual black hair was gone, replaced by a burning crimson that hadn't yet faded since his temper flared earlier. He didn't bother changing it. The magic hadn't fully receded, and deep down, he didn't want it to.
He rested his cheek against one hand, eyes half-lidded as Professor Lucent droned on about the Three Great Magical Paradoxes.
"Magic does not bend to reason," the professor intoned, "yet it can be reasoned with. This is the First Paradox. Philosophy helps us understand magic beyond mere spellwork. It is about intention. Consequence. Truth."
Arthur's attention drifted—not out of boredom, but because something in him felt stretched. Like his soul had been stretched too far in every direction and was still expected to function.
Across the aisle, Micah slouched in his chair, ink-stained hands twirling a feathered quill, watching Arthur from the corner of his eye. He passed a parchment over silently.
"You're glowing, Red. Someone piss you off?"
Arthur didn't respond.
Micah took the silence for a yes.
Two seats ahead, Calla sat cross-legged on her chair, flipping her quill between her fingers, not even pretending to take notes. She leaned toward Evelyne, whispering something that made the other girl grin slyly.
Evelyne turned just enough to glance back at Arthur. That familiar gleam in her eyes—part mischief, part intrigue.
"Look at him," she whispered. "Like a ticking time-bomb wrapped in hair dye."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. They weren't wrong.
But they didn't know.
Then the door opened. Latecomers.
Tomas Ashbourne strolled in first, hair slicked back, charm practically dripping from his robes. Behind him came Priya N'Dour, silent as a shadow, books clutched tightly.
Professor Lucent didn't miss a beat. "Nice of you both to join us. Find seats. Quietly."
Tomas bowed mockingly. "Of course, Professor. I wouldn't dare disrupt your… ah, philosophical enlightenment."
Several students chuckled.
Arthur didn't.
The topic shifted.
"We begin today," Lucent announced, "with the Second Paradox of Magical Philosophy—first articulated by Elemith the Thoughtweaver during the Collapse Age:
'Power without knowledge is dangerous. Knowledge without power is meaningless.'
He wrote it on the board with a flick of his wand.
The room stirred to life.
Priya raised a hand. "But isn't knowledge a form of power in itself?"
Lucent smiled. "A wise observation. But consider—what good is knowledge if you're helpless to act on it?"
Micah perked up. "So you're saying a powerless genius is no better than a reckless brute?"
Tomas snorted. "No, he's worse. At least the brute doesn't delude himself."
Calla raised a brow. "You just described yourself, Tomas."
Lucent let the words hang like a spell over the class.
Then—
A hand shot up— it was Priya again.
"Professor," she said, voice even, "I believe the statement oversimplifies. Knowledge is power. Perhaps not in the destructive sense, but in the potential sense. To know is to be free—or at least less blind."
Lucent nodded. "Excellent. Anyone disagree?"
Tomas leaned forward, wearing his signature smirk. "What's the use of knowing the mountain is going to fall on you if you can't move out of the way?"
Laughter scattered across the room.
Calla snorted softly. "That sounds like something a Gryph would say."
"Better than sounding like a walking dictionary," Tomas shot back.
Lucent raised a hand, quieting the room.
"And yet," he said, "Tomas raises a point—knowledge alone cannot always protect us. Wisdom without action is like spellwork with no wand."
Arthur laughed internally. He was quite proficient in wandless magic.
Evelyne—lips painted a curious silver today—leaned her cheek against her fist.
"I think power without knowledge is worse. A spell in the hands of a fool is more dangerous than no spell at all. Give an unstable mage an explosive enchantment, and you'll get a crater where a city used to be."
"Or a crater where your ego used to be," Calla whispered to her.
A Wampus, Stephan, raised a hand. "So what we're really arguing is—what should come first: the means or the understanding?"
Lucent nodded slowly. "Yes. And more importantly—which one makes a mage dangerous?"
Now Arthur felt it—the cold again. Not outside. Inside.
That familiar whisper curled in the back of his mind.
"Knowledge can't save you, Damian. It never did you any good, did it?"
He clenched his fists under the desk.
Calla turned toward him. "What do you think, Red?"
Arthur blinked. The room had gone quiet.
Lucent tilted his head. "Mr. Reeves?"
Arthur stood, slowly. Every motion felt deliberate, as if too much force would shatter something.
"Knowledge without power... isn't meaningless. It's a test. The paradox isn't about power or knowledge," he said quietly. "It's about control."
Lucent's eyes lit with interest. "Go on."
Arthur descended one step toward the center.
"Power with no knowledge leads to destruction. Knowledge with no power leads to helplessness. But both are symptoms of something worse—being unable to control either. That's where danger really lies. In the loss of agency."
He paused.
"You know the fire's coming—but can't stop it. Or worse, you are the fire, and you can't stop yourself."
Silence. Then a quiet cough. Evelyne was watching him now—not with humor, but with something far more piercing.
Tomas broke the stillness with a scoff. "So we're back to feelings again. The control argument is vague—who defines control? Who gets to say when someone's too unstable to act?"
"Ask the victims," Priya said coldly.
Arthur spoke again.
"You want a real answer?" he said, more to himself than the room. "The paradox is a mirror. It shows you who you are... what you fear. If you fear being powerless, you'll chase strength. If you fear the damage strength can do, you'll hide in books. But either way—without balance, you break."
Lucent finally nodded. "You may not realize it yet, Mr. Reeves, but that is precisely what Elemith believed. The paradox is not a warning—it is a test. Every mage must walk that line. Some... fall."
Arthur sat down slowly, pulse still thudding in his ears.
Micah muttered under his breath, "Remind me never to ask you for light reading recommendations."
Arthur sat down slowly, pulse still thudding in his ears. His hands trembled slightly beneath the desk. No one noticed—except Micah.
But something else was happening. The chill.
It wasn't just inside him anymore. It was in the air—slow and creeping, like the breath of winter slipping through a cracked window.
Lucent was still speaking, drawing the lecture to a close.
"...And so, in our next session, we'll study the works of Arumel the Forktongue, and his belief that paradox is not contradiction, but invitation..."
But the professor paused briefly, furrowing his brows. His glasses fogged for a moment—odd, for an enchanted classroom. He blinked, then resumed as if nothing had happened.
Arthur barely heard him.
The cold was rising.
From beneath his skin, from the pit of his stomach, across the inside of his throat like frost on glass. He gripped the desk so hard it creaked. His breath turned white.
His vision narrowed.
Not here. Not in front of them.
He stood up suddenly, cutting through the murmurs and movement of the class.
Lucent looked up. "Mr. Reeves?"
"I—I'm not feeling well," Arthur muttered, already moving toward the door.
No one stopped him.
Not even Micah.
The moment the door shut behind Arthur, a hush fell over the room.
Calla blinked. "...Was it just me, or did the temperature drop?"
Priya rubbed her arms. "No. I felt it too."
Evelyne leaned forward, thoughtful. "Cold enough to mist your breath. In Spring?"
Tomas rolled his eyes. "Maybe the weather's being dramatic. Or icy Micah thought it funny."
"No," Micah said quietly. His voice wasn't loud—but something in his tone silenced Tomas instantly.
He stared at the door, eyes shadowed with knowing.
He remembered that kind of cold.
Not the kind from wind or snow... But the kind that came from within. Cryomancy.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Hallway, post class.
In the hallway, Arthur collapsed against a pillar, exhaling fog. The stone beneath his hands turned brittle with frost. His heartbeat pounded like hammers cracking ice.
He looked down.
A thin line of frost had followed his footsteps.
Again. It's happening again.
The hallway was silent. Empty stone walls whispered with frost, veins of ice trailing from the corner where Arthur Reeves had curled himself up like a dying ember in winter.
His breath fogged. His fingers were near white.
The temperature had dropped again. But worse this time.
And the voice was back.
"You're weakening, Damian… Soon, they'll see who you truly are. You're not like them. Never were."
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms against his temples like pressure would muffle the voice.
"Why do you fight what you already are?"
His fingers began to glow a muted blue. The frost spread. Behind his back, the wall cracked.
That's when Micah showed up.
"Sup, cuz," he said casually, hands in his pockets. "You look cold. Real cold."
Arthur didn't look up. "Tell me something I don't know, Micah. You're the expert on this weird gift."
Micah cocked his head, still standing. "True. There's not really a name for it... but I call it—Frostbite."
He paused, dramatic.
Arthur cracked one eye open. "Micah… The next time you pause for effect, I will freeze this entire corridor. Including you."
Micah smirked. "You're welcome to try, cousin. I'm made of frost and jokes."
Then his expression softened. He sat down beside Arthur, leaning his back against the icy wall.
"You getting the voice too?" he asked.
Arthur nodded faintly. "Yeah. And it's telling me not to listen to you."
Micah shrugged. "They all do."
The silence between them was cold but comfortable. Like two soldiers resting after battle.
Micah stared ahead.
"Look… I can't fix this for you," he said, quieter now. "I'm still trying to figure mine out. Some days I feel like it's me in control. Other days… it's the cold pulling my strings."
Arthur gave a tight nod. "And what? You just live like that?"
Micah chuckled. "Nah. I survive like that."
He turned slightly, gaze more serious now.
"You remember what you said in class? About paradoxes?"
"That sometimes, it's not contradiction, but invitation?"
Arthur blinked. "Yeah?"
"Well, maybe this—this thing—isn't about choosing between light or dark. Maybe it's about surviving the tension between both. Holding both truths without breaking."
Arthur stared at him, speechless.
Then a sudden surge of cold seized his chest.
He grunted, clutching it.
"Arthur?" Micah stood immediately.
Arthur's veins shimmered with silver-blue under the skin. His breath hitched. For a second, his irises glazed over like frost.
Micah gritted his teeth. "Don't let the cold take you. Don't you let it."
Arthur was panting. "And if it does…?"
Micah didn't answer at first. Then he leaned closer and whispered, like it was a promise.
"Let's not find out."
He stood and walked away.
Arthur sat there. Alone. Again.
He looked at his hands—frostbitten, pale, fingers trembling.
He laughed quietly to himself.
"Frostbite," he murmured. "Tacky name."
But the voice didn't speak this time. The cold was quiet. For now.
His mind wandered.
The last time it had gotten this bad was when the basilisk petrified Theo Nott.
And again in the Chamber of Secrets… when the cold nearly swallowed him whole.
He'd only fought it back because of her.
Elena Potter. Harry's younger sister.
The girl who stirred warmth in the frost.
The girl who made him feel something when nothing else did.
He exhaled, steam curling from his lips.
Maybe that's what I need. To feel again. To let someone in.
He looked up at the enchanted torches flickering along the hallway.
Their flames bent slightly toward him, not away.
For the first time that day, Arthur smirked. Micah was right.
"Time to get a crush, then."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Hallway, post class.
In the hallway, Arthur collapsed against a pillar, exhaling fog. The stone beneath his hands turned brittle with frost. His heartbeat pounded like hammers cracking ice.
He looked down.
A thin line of frost had followed his footsteps.
Again. It's happening again.
The hallway was silent. Empty stone walls whispered with frost, veins of ice trailing from the corner where Arthur Reeves had curled himself up like a dying ember in winter.
His breath fogged. His fingers were near white.
The temperature had dropped again. But worse this time.
And the voice was back.
"You're weakening, Damian… Soon, they'll see who you truly are. You're not like them. Never were."
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms against his temples like pressure would muffle the voice.
"Why do you fight what you already are?"
His fingers began to glow a muted blue. The frost spread. Behind his back, the wall cracked.
That's when Micah showed up.
"Sup, cuz," he said casually, hands in his pockets. "You look cold. Real cold."
Arthur didn't look up. "Tell me something I don't know, Micah. You're the expert on this weird gift."
Micah cocked his head, still standing. "True. There's not really a name for it... but I call it—Frostbite."
He paused, dramatic.
Arthur cracked one eye open. "Micah… The next time you pause for effect, I will freeze this entire corridor. Including you."
Micah smirked. "You're welcome to try, cousin. I'm made of frost and jokes."
Then his expression softened. He sat down beside Arthur, leaning his back against the icy wall.
"You getting the voice too?" he asked.
Arthur nodded faintly. "Yeah. And it's telling me not to listen to you."
Micah shrugged. "They all do."
The silence between them was cold but comfortable. Like two soldiers resting after battle.
Micah stared ahead.
"Look… I can't fix this for you," he said, quieter now. "I'm still trying to figure mine out. Some days I feel like it's me in control. Other days… it's the cold pulling my strings."
Arthur gave a tight nod. "And what? You just live like that?"
Micah chuckled. "Nah. I survive like that."
He turned slightly, gaze more serious now.
"You remember what you said in class? About paradoxes?"
"That sometimes, it's not contradiction, but invitation?"
Arthur blinked. "Yeah?"
"Well, maybe this—this thing—isn't about choosing between light or dark. Maybe it's about surviving the tension between both. Holding both truths without breaking."
Arthur stared at him, speechless.
Then a sudden surge of cold seized his chest.
He grunted, clutching it.
"Arthur?" Micah stood immediately.
Arthur's veins shimmered with silver-blue under the skin. His breath hitched. For a second, his irises glazed over like frost.
Micah gritted his teeth. "Don't let the cold take you. Don't you let it."
Arthur was panting. "And if it does…?"
Micah didn't answer at first. Then he leaned closer and whispered, like it was a promise.
"Let's not find out."
He stood and walked away.
Arthur sat there. Alone. Again.
He looked at his hands—frostbitten, pale, fingers trembling.
He laughed quietly to himself.
"Frostbite," he murmured. "Tacky name."
But the voice didn't speak this time. The cold was quiet. For now.
His mind wandered.
The last time it had gotten this bad was when the basilisk petrified Theo Nott.
And again in the Chamber of Secrets… when the cold nearly swallowed him whole.
He'd only fought it back because of her.
Elena Potter. Harry's younger sister.
The girl who stirred warmth in the frost.
The girl who made him feel something when nothing else did.
He exhaled, steam curling from his lips.
Maybe that's what I need. To feel again. To let someone in.
He looked up at the enchanted torches flickering along the hallway.
Their flames bent slightly toward him, not away.
For the first time that day, Arthur smirked. Micah was right.
"Time to get a crush, then."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Remote cliffside forest. Night.
Wind raked through the treetops like talons dragging through silk. Beneath the shadows, the ground writhed—not with roots or worms—but something... wrong.
From the dark underbrush emerged a shape that defied sense:
A Varnhound.
A grotesque amalgamation of catlike grace, canine snout, and segmented insect limbs that twitched in a rhythm that didn't match the breathing of the earth. Its fur was patchy, as if it had been sewn from different corpses. One eye glowed a sickly green, scanning with unsettling intelligence. The other buzzed and flickered mechanically, like a lightbulb on the brink of failure.
Another Varnhound slithered behind it, then another—until the glade was filled with a dozen of them, pulsing with hunger.
Then—footsteps.
Crisp. Controlled.
A hooded figure stepped into the clearing, boots crunching softly against the frostbitten grass. In one gloved hand: a vial. Inside it, swirling softly—Blood. Still warm. Still potent.
"You remember him, don't you?" the figure whispered, kneeling to hold the vial before the pack.
"He remembers you too."
The Varnhounds shuddered as one, an eerie chorus of hisses and mechanical growls.
"He was a untamed then. Still breathing warmth."
The vial pulsed faintly. The nearest Varnhound twitched violently, its back legs bending backward with a snap. Then it howled—not in pain, but in recognition.
"But the cold is claiming him now, thanks to his bloodline," the voice continued, low and laced with delight. "Slowly. Surely. Beautifully."
"Let him freeze. Let him fight."
"It changes nothing."
The figure stood, tucking the vial away beneath the folds of his cloak. His voice dropped into a near whisper.
"We have his blood."
The Varnhounds surged forward, not attacking, but curling around him like a living, broken crown.
"And soon... we will have the rest of them."
Miles away, Arthur jolted in his sleep—cold seeping into his bones.
Not just the frostbite.
Something else.
Watching.
Calling.