It had been nearly two weeks since the Dueling Club incident. The memory still clung to the castle like a persistent fog—unseen, but ever-present. And Arthur Reeves was at the center of it.
People had always stared at Arthur, but now the glances were sharpened with fear and uncertainty. He used to walk through the halls with an easy swagger, his robes billowing behind him like a cloak of charm and trouble. Now, those same halls parted before him like the sea before a curse.
It wasn't just that he had spoken Parseltongue—though that alone would have been enough. It was that the snake had listened. That it had almost attack Dean Thomas. That Arthur had let it. Or at least that's what everyone was whispering now.
It didn't help that he was a Slytherin.
By the time December rolled in—its first snow swirling outside the high windows of the castle—the rumors had taken root deep into Hogwarts soil. They'd grown vines, and those vines twisted into every conversation.
"He's the Heir. Has to be," they'd murmur. "Why else would a snake obey him?"
"I heard his dad was a Death Eater."
"No, his mum. Or both, maybe."
"Snakes don't attack unless told to. That's what my brother says, and he works in the Magical Creatures Department."
The frost clung to the windows, and the smell of cinnamon had begun to drift in from the kitchens. Hogwarts was dressing itself for the holidays—but Arthur Reeves moved through the castle like a shadow behind glass.
The whispering hadn't stopped.
In fact, it had grown louder, hungrier. In the Common Room, in the corridors, in the Library. Students stared longer. Flinched harder. Even first-years crossed themselves with trembling wands as he passed.
And Arthur didn't stop it.
He welcomed it.
He had chosen this.
He didn't bother correcting anyone, didn't explain what really happened in the Dueling Club. He let the story twist and tighten, like a noose that everyone thought he was too stupid to feel.
But he felt it.
He just never flinched.
Because this was the plan: let the school believe he was the Heir. Let the real culprit think his trail had gone cold. Arthur was playing bait—but it was getting harder to remember that it was only bait. Pretending to be feared was starting to feel a lot like being feared. And that line blurred more with every day.
Even Draco and Theo were starting to watch him like he might turn around and bite.
They didn't say it aloud, but he saw it in their eyes: unease.
Maybe it was the way he stopped reacting when people flinched. Maybe it was the way he smirked too easily when he overheard the rumors. Or maybe it was the coldness that had started to live behind his gaze, like he was always two moves ahead in a chess game only he could see.
The teachers were no better.
McGonagall's smiles had become mechanical, as though rehearsed in front of a mirror. She always seemed to run into him near empty corridors or classrooms with no lesson scheduled.
Flitwick stammered now, adjusting his notes nervously if Arthur raised a hand.
Even Madam Pomfrey had taken to watching him with a kind of tight-lipped caution, like he was a glass vial of unknown potion—beautiful, maybe, but liable to explode.
And then there was Snape.
Snape, who never blinked. Never flinched. Never avoided.
He's the only one who didn't change so much.
Every time Arthur entered the dungeon classroom late—as he always did—Snape would turn with that slow, heavy stillness, his black robes pooling like ink around his feet.
"Reeves," he would say, soft as a threat. "How generous of you to join us 'this early'. Shall I inform the Headmaster that the new celebrity is punctual once a week?"
Arthur's smirk was always razor-sharp. "Only if you think he'll be impressed by my growing fan club, sir."
The class never laughed. Not anymore.
Snape didn't deduct points—he watched. And that was worse.
Every encounter felt like a duel wrapped in manners. Subtle. Brutal.
Snape was testing him. Looking for cracks.
And Arthur had none to show.
But beneath it all—beneath the masks and the lines and the smirks—Arthur was tired.
Pretending not to care was easy when the castle lights were on, when people were watching. But in the quiet of the dorm, when Draco was asleep and Theo pretended to be, the weight of what he was doing crushed down like snow on a branch about to snap.
It was in that haze—caught between performance and exhaustion—that he began to notice things.
Odd things.
Spiders.
They were everywhere. Not just in corners and rafters—running. Always running in the same direction. Away from something. Fleeing places where the air grew too still.
They skittered across stairwells. Dropped from ceilings like tiny paratroopers of doom. One even made it into his breakfast once, and Arthur watched it crawl off the plate like it had somewhere to be and fast.
He began keeping a mental map of where they weren't. Those places were colder. Quieter. And they made his skin crawl.
He needed answers. And there was only one person he trusted more than Theo or Draco. One person who had no reason to lie to him, no stake in the political madness of Hogwarts.
Hagrid.
Arthur grabbed his cloak and slipped into the snow.
The path to Hagrid's hut was half-buried under snow, the trees around the grounds whispering with wind. Arthur kept his hood low and moved fast, not wanting to be seen by anyone. It was easier now—students seemed to clear the halls like birds before a storm whenever he was around.
Hagrid opened the door before Arthur even knocked.
"Figured you'd come sooner or later," he rumbled.
Arthur blinked. "You… did?"
Hagrid gave him a look that was almost sad. "Yer not half as sneaky as yeh think, lad. I heard about what happened at the Dueling Club. Whole castle has."
Arthur stepped inside. The warmth hit him instantly—crackling fire, stew bubbling in a pot, and Fang half-dozing in a corner. For a moment, it felt like he could breathe.
Hagrid handed him a mug of something hot. "You alright?"
Arthur took a slow sip, then shook his head. "No. But I'm surviving."
They sat in silence for a minute. Then Arthur said, "You ever see anything like this before?"
Hagrid didn't answer right away. He scratched his beard, eyes darting toward the window. "Not since I was expelled. Last time the castle felt this tense… a girl died."
Arthur stiffened. "And now it's happening again."
"Yeh know what's odd?" Hagrid said, lowering his voice. "It's not just the students actin' strange. The animals are, too. My chickens—dead. Somethin's been killin' 'em, but no sign of bites, no tracks. Just… gone. And the roosters—won't stop screamin' at night like they're seein' somethin' I can't."
Arthur frowned. "Roosters?"
"Yeah. Odd creatures. Brave, though. Loud. Useful if yeh know the right stories."
Arthur leaned forward. "What do you mean 'useful'?"
Hagrid hesitated. "There's old tales—dark creatures, terrible ones, that can't stand the crow of a rooster. That kind o' sound, it's like light through shadows. It breaks the hold."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "And you think… whatever's moving in the walls… it fears them?"
"I dunno what I think," Hagrid said, looking tired. "But the roosters are dying. That much I do know."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The sky was already dark by the time Arthur left the path from Hagrid's hut. The chill was deeper now—not just from the cold, but from the silence in the air. The kind of silence that felt heavy, like the walls were listening.
He cut through the Transfiguration Courtyard, hugging the far edge of the hallway, his footsteps echoing faintly against stone.
Then—
A sound.
Not loud. Not a scream.
Just a snap—like the crack of ice forming.
Arthur paused.
His breath misted in the cold air.
Then, from around the corner—movement.
He turned the corner fast, wand out, heart in his throat.
And froze.
Dean Thomas stood in the middle of the hallway.
So still, it took Arthur a second to realize he wasn't just standing.
He wasn't breathing.
His eyes were wide—frozen in a look of utter horror—and beside him floated Nearly Headless Nick, suspended mid-drift like someone had pressed pause on reality itself. The ghost's translucent form glowed faintly in the gloom, mouth open in a silent scream.
Arthur's stomach dropped.
"Dean?"
No answer.
He took one step forward, then another—and Dean's body tilted, toppling backwards like a puppet with its strings cut.
Thud.
Arthur was at his side in seconds, kneeling next to him. He didn't dare touch him, but every inch of Dean's body was stiff—locked in place, like he'd been frozen in a single moment of terror.
Arthur looked up.
The corridor was empty.
Not a sound. No footsteps. No whispers. Nothing.
Whoever had done this—whatever had done this—was already gone.
Then, he caught it
Skittering.
Tiny, frantic feet.
He turned sharply toward the window crack just above the floor.
Spiders
Dozens of them.
They were fleeing—pouring out through the crack in a tight, desperate line. Moving like soldiers escaping a battlefield.
Arthur's mouth went dry.
It wasn't just the spiders anymore. This was happening again.
This was the second attack.
He stood up, backing away from the body—and that's when he heard the unmistakable click of sharp heels behind him.
"Mr. Reeves."
Arthur turned sharply.
Professor McGonagall stood at the far end of the hallway, her eyes instantly locking on the scene in front of her—Dean on the floor. The ghost. Arthur. Wand still out
Her lips parted just slightly. Her eyes widened.
Not with surprise.
With realization.
Then came the faintest tightening of her jaw.
Arthur took a breath.
"This isn't what it looks like," he said quietly.
McGonagall's voice was calm. Controlled. But ice-cold.
"Then perhaps, Mr. Reeves," she said, "you'd best come with me and explain exactly what it is."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The fire crackled with polite disinterest as Arthur sat across from Professor McGonagall. Her desk was spotless, her expression anything but.
He hated the silence more than he hated being blamed. Almost.
"Where were you before Dean was attacked?" she asked at last.
"Hagrid's," he said. "Just talking. He said some of his chickens were acting strange—refusing to goanywhere and not eating too. Thought I'd check it out."
McGonagall arched a brow. "And what compelled you to investigate Hagrid's livestock?"
"I talk to animals," Arthur said. "All kinds. I've been able to since summer. Ask Draco, Theo, Myles—they've seen it. It's not just snakes."
Her expression didn't change. "You do realize how it looks."
"I'm aware," he said through gritted teeth. "I turned the corner and Dean was already down. No sound. No attacker. Just him. And Nick, floating there—paralyzed. There was no blood. No writing. Nothing."
"You saw spiders?"
"Running," Arthur nodded. "Toward the window. Away from something."
She tapped her quill but didn't write.
"You've been present at three major events now, Mr. Reeves," she said. "The attack on Mrs. Norris, The Dueling Club… and this."
Arthur's shoulders tightened. "So what? Coincidence is guilt now?"
McGonagall didn't rise to the bait. "You'll be supervised. No exceptions. And if anything else occurs—anything—you report it."
Arthur leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. "Let me guess. I'm being dragged to Dumbledore next?"
A pause.
She didn't answer.
Arthur scoffed, standing slowly. "Figures."
McGonagall's gaze sharpened. "Is there something you wish to share, Arthur?"
"No," he said, brushing his hair back, "just… I don't trust him. Dumbledore. He watches too closely. Smiles like he knows something no one else does. I don't know what it is. Just… doesn't feel right."
Something shifted in McGonagall's expression—faint, brief, but there. A flicker of hesitation, quickly swallowed by professionalism.
"You'll return to your dormitory now," she said curtly.
Arthur nodded. As he reached the door, her voice stopped him.
"I want to believe you, Arthur. I truly do. But belief isn't the same as proof."
He didn't look back.
"Then maybe you're watching the wrong person," he muttered under his breath.
The portraits above stirred as he stepped into the corridor, the firelight flickering in their painted eyes. Some looked after him with suspicion.
The corridor was empty.
Not quiet—Hogwarts was never truly quiet—but empty in the way that made every footstep feel louder than it should. Arthur moved in silence, the click of his shoes the only rhythm against the castle's uneasy heartbeat.
He should've felt calmer after the meeting with McGonagall. He didn't.
Her voice still echoed in his head. "Belief isn't the same as proof." What was that supposed to mean? That she believed him—but wouldn't protect him?
Or that she didn't believe him at all?
Arthur scowled, hands stuffed into his robe pockets. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was Dumbledore.
Everyone revered the man like he was some twinkly-eyed saint—spoke of him like he could do no wrong. But Arthur had never trusted people like that. Too perfect. Too adored. Too above it all.
And everyone feared him.
Even the Minister of Magic.
Even—
—Voldemort.
That was what unsettled him most. Not just that Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord. But that he was the only one he ever feared. That wasn't comfort. That was a red flag waving in neon fire.
Fear wasn't a badge of honor.
It was a warning.
They said Dumbledore won the Elder Wand by defeating Grindelwald in a legendary duel. Maybe it was true. Or maybe… maybe it was luck. Maybe it was something else.
Power like that didn't come clean.
No one talked about the cost.
He hadn't even known Voldemort existed until the end of his first year. Just another name buried under years of silence. It was like they had scrubbed history clean. No pictures. No public record. Just whispers and legends.
He didn't like that.
He didn't like him.
Dumbledore watched him too closely. Spoke to him like he was always two moves ahead. Always smiling, always calm. It wasn't right.
No one was that perfect.
No one.
Arthur stopped outside the Slytherin common room, hand on the stone wall. He glanced once over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a shadow there.
Nothing.
Still… he couldn't shake the feeling.
Not that someone was watching him.
That someone was waiting.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur was halfway to sleep when he heard it.
Tap. Tap.
Not the castle's usual creaks or whispering wind—no, this was deliberate. Rhythmic. Irritated.
At first, he thought it was the mouse again. Or Peeves trying out his new "midnight hammer routine." But the tapping came again. Impatient. Sharp.
Tap. Tap.
He sighed, rolled over, and opened one eye.
There, standing boldly on the ledge like it belonged in a heroic oil painting, was a rooster.
Not a scared farm bird. No. This one stood upright. Chest out. Beak slightly raised. Eyes narrowed with the intensity of a soldier who'd seen things.
Arthur groaned. "You've got to be joking."
Draco stirred in his bed, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled over.
Arthur threw back his blanket, padded barefoot across the cold floor, and opened the window with a quiet creak.
The rooster didn't flinch. Just stood there, majestic and puffed up like he was about to deliver a war speech.
Arthur folded his arms. "You've got three seconds to explain yourself before I go back to bed."
"Corporal Wooster, 5th Regiment, retired," came the reply in Arthur's mind. "Now Sergeant, technically. Promotions came quick after the fox incident."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Oh great. A decorated war veteran chicken."
"Rooster," Wooster corrected. "And watch your tone, son. I didn't march through the Forbidden Forest with a wounded owl on my back just to be dismissed by a barefoot teenager."
Arthur blinked. "I'm sorry—what war are we fighting again?"
"You should know, considering we've been dying left, right, and centre!"
"Oh no....chickens have been dying. If only I'd known that before."
"Roosters, boy! Glorious crowing bastards, every one. And yes. Numbers are down. Pecking order's in disarray. One of the lads started clucking like a duck yesterday. Morale's crumbling."
Arthur stared. "Okay. Either I'm asleep, or this is a stress-induced hallucination."
"Don't flatter yourself. I chose you. I crossed enemy territory. Froze my tailfeathers off. Avoided three kneazles, a hexed garden gnome, and Filch's mop just to get here."
Arthur squinted. "Wait, was that you who tripped Filch down the stairs on Tuesday?"
"Collateral damage."
Arthur tried not to grin. "So, why me?"
Wooster straightened, his feathers flaring slightly. "Because you listen. The others don't. They hear clucking. You hear command strategy."
Arthur snorted. "More like suicidal monologue."
"I led a battalion of twelve against a family of weasels, you ungrateful brat."
"That… sounds made up."
"We lost Barry. Good rooster. Had a limp but a heart like a Hippogriff."
Arthur rubbed his eyes. "Alright, Sergeant Wooster, what exactly are you warning me about?"
The rooster's tone shifted, serious now. "The beast is stirring. Something dark, something old. We've been vanishing. First the roosters. Then the frogs stopped singing. Now even the spiders are marching."
"I've noticed that," Arthur said. "They're running away from certain places."
"Because something's hunting. And we're noisy. We warn the others. The beast doesn't like that."
Arthur leaned against the frame. "Do you know where it is?"
"Under. Deep. Places with echoes. Old pipes. Wet stone. I'm a soldier, not a bloody cartographer."
Arthur sighed. "So what, you want me to warn the school?"
"Oh heavens no. The professors would try to weaponize us. I'm here to tell you: Keep your head low. Or high. Whichever's better for surviving decapitation."
"I'll write that down," Arthur said dryly. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Stop eating eggs. It's weird now."
Arthur blinked. "That's... oddly personal."
"I watched you dip toast into yolk last week like it owed you money."
He grimaced. "Okay, okay, message received—"
"—And tell Hagrid to change feed brands. Whatever he's using now gives me gas."
Arthur blinked. "You're Hagrid's rooster?"
"Was. The others are gone. I'm the last of the 5th Regiment. The final sentinel."
Then, without warning, Wooster puffed up his feathers, saluted with one wing, and stepped back.
"Wait—wait, you're not—"
"Tell the chicks I loved them."
Arthur lunged.
Too late.
Fwump.
A muffled thump came from below the window.
Draco's groggy voice floated across the dorm. "Did… did a chicken just commit suicide outside our window?"
Arthur didn't turn around. "Rooster."
"…Was it talking to you?"
"Yes."
Long pause.
"Was it the same one that insulted Snape's haircut last week?"
Arthur closed the window slowly.
"I can't be sure. I mean, they all look alike."
"…Right. I'm going back to sleep and pretending none of this happened."
Theo murmured from his side. "Amen, brother."
Arthur just stood there, frost clinging to the edges of the window, smiling.
I hope it's a cat next time.