The wind smelled like ash and old rain.
Arthur stood barefoot on the cold stone balcony of Reeves Manor, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The training suit fit him snugly—sleek and black, tailored like a second skin—but it did little to keep out the morning chill. The mist curled around the railings like half-forgotten ghosts, dragging long fingers through his hair, which now spilled past his ears in unruly black waves.
He'd grown again. Taller. Leaner. Stronger maybe, but it didn't feel like it.
Beneath his skin, things had changed. Shifted. Something inside him hummed, quiet but constant, like a storm he hadn't figured out how to outrun. Or control. Or even understand.
The year at Hogwarts had left scars no mirror could show. Not just magical ones. And now, standing here in this place—this in-between—he didn't quite know who he was meant to be anymore. A problem no one had solved yet?
The sky had no answers.
He exhaled through his nose, fogging up the space before him. It would've been nice, just for once, to feel like a kid. But even that luxury had expired, and life had moved on without giving him notice.
The wind tugged at his hair again.
He looked down at his hands. Callused now. Etched with faint white lines from wand burns and training swords and that one incident with the exploding ink bottle. He was only thirteen, and yet some mornings he woke up feeling ancient.
He wondered if this was what growing up really meant—just slowly becoming tired of pretending you're okay.
"I think I might punch the next adult who says 'you're strong for your age,'" he muttered aloud.
"That better not be me."
Arthur startled slightly, but didn't turn.
Cassian's voice was warm and sharp all at once, like steel tempered with tea.
"You've been standing here like a brooding statue for an hour," Cassian said as he stepped up beside him. "Very poetic. Ten points for drama. Minus five for frostbite risk."
Arthur didn't respond immediately. His jaw clenched for a second, then relaxed. "I'm allowed to brood. I've earned it."
Cassian hummed. "Sure. Just don't fall off. Lenora hates cleaning blood off the gravel."
Arthur finally looked at him. "Wouldn't be much left to clean. I'm light."
"Light with an ego dense enough to make gravity jealous," Cassian replied dryly.
That earned the faintest huff—Arthur's version of a laugh these days.
"You ever feel like the world's just waiting for you to mess up?" he asked suddenly.
Cassian blinked, then tilted his head. "Every day since I was ten."
"…Oh."
"Yeah. It's not just you, Arthur. But you've got something I didn't have at your age."
Arthur arched a brow. "Magic trauma and a prophecy?"
Cassian grinned. "No. Me. Now come on. Lenora made breakfast. Apple crumble and those cinnamon things you inhale like a starved beast."
"Emotional manipulation," Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
"Call it what you like. But your seat is warm, and I'm eating your portion in ten minutes."
Arthur finally peeled himself from the railing. "You're lucky I like your wife."
Cassian threw an arm around his shoulder. "Everyone does. She's the reason anyone puts up with me."
They walked back inside, the warmth of the manor already seeping in past the cold.
Behind him, the mist slowly cleared.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The smell hit Arthur the second he stepped into the dining room: cinnamon, cardamom, fresh apples, and something buttery that should've been illegal. His stomach growled like a traitor.
The long oak table was already crowded. Vivienne was perched on the edge of her chair, braiding Micah's hair in oddly complex knots while he glared daggers at her. Dorian was flipping a knife between his fingers, not eating—just being dramatic as usual. Liam, wide-eyed and half-asleep, was cradling a cup of hot cocoa like it held the meaning of life.
And at the head of it all stood Lenora Reeves, apron on, sleeves rolled, radiant as ever. Her dark curls were tied back with a ribbon, and her hazel eyes sparkled as she spotted Arthur.
"Well, if it isn't my second-favorite Reeves," she teased.
Arthur blinked. "Second?"
"Cassian's first," she said sweetly, plating another helping of apple crumble. "Because I need him to do the dishes."
Cassian grunted. "I'm being used."
"You're being loved," Lenora corrected, pressing a kiss to his cheek before handing Arthur a heaping plate. "Eat. You look like you've been chewing on responsibilities instead of food."
"I have," Arthur said, dropping into a chair next to Liam and dragging the plate toward himself. "They taste like cardboard and anxiety."
Vivienne laughed. "He's back, alright."
Micah shot him a grin. "You look taller. And moodier."
"I've evolved," Arthur replied around a mouthful of crumble. "Like a Pokémon."
"Does that mean you're in your angsty middle stage?" Dorian asked, eyes glittering.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I will pour tea into your lap."
Dorian held up his hands, mock surrender. "Look at you. All grown and threatening."
"I'd threaten you more if I wasn't two bites away from bliss."
Lenora returned with a steaming tray of eggs, bacon, enchanted buttered rolls that refilled themselves, and a pitcher of fresh pumpkin juice. Plates clinked. Silverware scraped. Conversation melted into laughter and overlapping stories.
Arthur didn't say much at first. He just watched.
This—this noisy, chaotic, golden mess of family—was something he never quite knew how to name. But it felt right. Safe. Grounding.
"You okay?" Vivienne nudged him, softer now.
He nodded, mouth full, then swallowed. "Yeah. Just… recalibrating."
"Welcome back, Beastboy" she said, reaching for more butter.
"Do not start with nicknames," he groaned.
"Too late," Dorian sang. "It's canon now."
Cassian leaned back, arms crossed, surveying the table. "Alright, crew. Training starts in an hour. Finish up, hydrate, stretch, and try not to throw up."
"Too late," Liam whispered. "I had four cinnamon rolls."
Arthur snorted. "You're braver than the marines."
They all laughed. And for a moment, the world outside Reeves Manor didn't exist.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The Reeves training field looked like something out of a war journal—wide, sun-drenched, and half-charred from countless sparring sessions. Wards shimmered faintly in the air, enclosing the grounds in protective magic. You could set off a small explosion and the manor's flowers wouldn't even notice.
Arthur stood in the center, panting, shirt damp with sweat, a wooden blade in one hand and his pride in the other—both cracked.
"Again," Cassian called from the edge of the field, arms folded, voice calm.
Arthur grimaced. "Do you enjoy this?"
"Yes," Cassian replied.
Vivienne laughed from the sidelines. "You're doing better than last year!"
Arthur wiped sweat from his brow. "Last year I got knocked out by my own wand."
"That was hilarious," Liam piped up from the grass. "You flew like thirty feet!"
"Thanks, Liam," Arthur muttered, twirling the blade and taking stance again.
Dorian stepped in as his partner this time—taller, broader, and maddeningly calm.
"Ready?" Dorian asked.
"No," Arthur said. "But let's pretend I am."
They clashed.
For a moment, Arthur held his own. Parry. Pivot. Duck. Strike. But Dorian was relentless—like a tide with muscles. He moved like a memory, smooth and impossible to grasp. Then came the sweeping kick. Arthur flew back, skidded across the grass, and groaned at the sky.
Stars spun.
Someone chuckled.
"He's down again," Vivienne called, sipping something far too cold for such a hot day.
Arthur raised one hand weakly. "I'm alive, but I'm questioning why."
Dorian stood over him, wooden sword in hand. He poked Arthur's cheek with the flat end. "Still breathing."
"That's unfortunate," Arthur muttered.
"Are you gonna stand up," Vivienne asked, walking over, "or are you just gonna wallow in self-pity like a damp rug?"
Arthur turned his head toward her slowly. "I choose pity. And peace."
"Let him die," Micah said dryly from the bench. Frost bloomed lazily around his boots.
"You look funny," Liam added helpfully.
Arthur lifted a hand toward the heavens. "This is it. This is where I perish. Tell Hogwarts I went down fighting."
"You tripped over your own feet," Dorian corrected.
Arthur closed his eyes dramatically. "Tell them I was betrayed by gravity."
He rolled onto his side with a dramatic grunt. "I fought a basilisk for gods' sake... and won."
Dorian didn't even pause. "Only because it let you, Arthur. You're lucky you had Beasttongue on your side. Otherwise you'd be a charmingly charred statue in the Forbidden Forest."
"Wow. That's so comforting," Arthur muttered.
Vivienne smirked. "I'd have kept your wand. It's cute."
Micah added dryly, "I'd have sold your shoes. They're still brand-new."
Liam grinned. "I would've cried... a little."
Arthur closed his eyes again. "Remind me never to die around you lot. You're all vultures with great fashion sense."
Vivienne knelt beside him, her voice quieter this time. "You know where to find us, yeah? When it gets lonely?"
He opened one eye. "You're not leaving, are you?"
"Nah," she smirked. "Just giving you your moment."
The laughter faded as the others wandered off—Vivienne tossing him a canteen of water, Liam waving dramatically like Arthur was truly dying. Dorian gave one last poke with the wooden sword for good measure before vanishing around the training ring.
Arthur let out a sigh, slumping back on the grass, arms flopped out. The heat of the afternoon sun soaked through his suit, and for a moment, everything stilled.
He closed his eyes. Peace.
Until he felt it.
That prickling awareness. Like being watched.
He didn't even lift his head.
"Are you just gonna sit there and watch me die?" he said aloud.
A pause.
Then a flutter of wings.
"Depends," came the snide, feathery voice. "Is there food involved?"
Arthur cracked an eye open. "Elira."
Perched on the training post just a few feet away, the owl preened a wing with regal indifference. Her feathers shimmered faintly under the light, her amber eyes gleaming like firelit topaz.
"You look awful," she said.
"I fought a basilisk and five cousins," Arthur groaned. "I deserve sympathy."
"Sympathy? For flopping around like a stunned trout? Honestly, you've looked better after a night in the owlery."
He grunted. "Why do I miss you again?"
"Because I'm the only one who talks sense. Also—your hair's longer. Very dramatic. I approve."
Arthur smirked despite himself. "Thanks. It's called trauma growth."
Elira flapped once and swooped down to perch beside his outstretched arm, her tone softer—just a little. "You didn't die. You're not broken. You're just changing."
Arthur looked at her. "I'm thirteen."
"And already twice the person most ever become."
He blinked. "Was that... actual support?"
"Don't get used to it," she said, ruffling her feathers. "Now get up before your dramatic soul floats into the clouds. You smell like training sweat and teenage angst."
Arthur didn't reply right away.
He simply lay there, breathing in the summer air, listening to Elira's voice melt into the hum of the breeze. For once, he let the silence settle. No snark. No sighs. Just… listening.
Elira tilted her head. "Oh wow. Silence. Actual, thoughtful silence. This must be what maturity smells like.
She hopped a little closer, talons clinking softly against the wood.
"Finally," she said, stretching her wings. "Someone else I can talk to without being interrupted by groans or dramatic declarations of doom."
"You got that right," another voice said.
Arthur opened his eyes—and blinked.
Daniel stood above him, upside down from where Arthur lay on the grass, hands tucked into the pockets of his grey tunic. His falcon sat perched calmly on one shoulder, looking just as smug as its master.
"You two done bonding, or should I come back when the emotional breakthrough is complete?"
Arthur squinted. "Do you always sneak up on people like that, or is this a special occasion?"
Daniel grinned. "Only when they're sprawled out like tragic poetry. What's the verdict? Dead or dramatically injured?"
Arthur groaned, covering his face with one arm. "I fought a basilisk, for gods' sake."
"Only because it let you," Daniel shot back smoothly. "You're lucky your Beasttongue kicked in or we'd be burying your remains in alphabetized pieces."
Elira hooted with laughter. "Finally. Someone with real perspective."
Arthur muttered into his arm, "I liked it better when it was just me and my angst."
Daniel offered him a hand.
Arthur stared at it for a beat, then sighed and grabbed hold, letting himself be hoisted to his feet.
"You're getting better," Daniel said, brushing grass off Arthur's back with the easy familiarity of an older sibling. "Didn't throw up once today."
"Progress," Arthur muttered, stretching his sore arms. "I should get a medal."
They started walking back toward the manor, the gravel crunching under their boots. Elira took off with a flutter, gliding toward the nearby perch where Daniel's falcon had already landed. The two birds sat in silence for a moment, then gave each other what Arthur could only describe as a judgmental side-eye… before quietly settling next to each other like old acquaintances.
"They're getting along," Arthur said.
Daniel nodded. "Birds of a feather. Both insufferable."
Arthur smirked but fell into silence again. Something had settled in Daniel's voice earlier—soft, almost absent-minded. Curious.
"You said something… about being the only one who could feel what I felt," Arthur said after a while, cautiously.
Daniel didn't answer right away
They reached the steps of the porch, the warm scent of baked honey bread and Lenora's herbal roast drifting through the open windows. For a moment, Arthur thought Daniel hadn't heard him.
But then the older boy said, casually, "I did. Doesn't mean I'm in the mood to talk about it."
Arthur frowned, but didn't press. Daniel wasn't like the others. He was older—quieter, sharper, always watching.
And something told Arthur that the moment Daniel did decide to talk… it would be worth listening to.
So instead, he simply nodded. "Alright."
Daniel gave him a half-smile and pushed open the door. "Come on, before Liam eats everything and declares himself Emperor of Breakfast."
Arthur chuckled. "Too late."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The two boys stepped into the courtyard, a quiet square of cobbled stone framed by blooming archways and sun-dappled trees. The morning light softened the edges of the world, but Arthur still felt heavy with thought. Muscles sore. Heart heavier.
They sat on the cold bench—Arthur hunched forward, elbows on knees, and Daniel calm beside him, the falcon now perched high above them on a nearby archway.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"You're holding it all in," Daniel said finally, eyes on the ivy creeping along the wall. "The power. The confusion. The fear. You're not fooling anyone, Arthur."
Arthur glanced at him, one brow raised. "Is this your therapy voice?"
Daniel snorted. "No. This is my 'I've-been-there-too' voice."
Arthur blinked.
"You think powers like ours show up in people by accident?" Daniel went on, still quiet. "They don't. Magic like this—raw, ancient stuff—it only comes to people with purpose. People who have to survive. Who must keep going, no matter how broken they feel."
Arthur's lips parted slightly. "So… it won't let me die? Until I—"
"Until you fulfill it," Daniel nodded. "Not completely. You can still get hurt. Wrecked. Lost. But it will fight for you, Arthur. Until the very end."
Arthur stared ahead, chest tight with something he couldn't name. Was that… comforting? Terrifying?
He didn't know.
"But power without control…" Daniel stood. "Is just noise."
Then he turned to face Arthur fully.
"Stand up."
Arthur gave him a look. "Why do I feel like this ends with me getting smacked in the face?"
"Trust me. Just stand."
Grumbling, Arthur rose.
"Now," Daniel said, voice low, "flare it. Your magic. Will it forward. Call it."
Arthur opened his hands slightly. "You make it sound easy."
"It is—when you stop trying to force it and just feel it."
Arthur frowned. "That's annoyingly vague."
Daniel didn't reply. Instead, he took a breath—and shifted.
The air around him sharpened. The breeze stilled. The very atmosphere bent.
His hair shimmered, strands darkening from black to a warm brown at the tips. His eyes turned predatory—sharp gold irises ringed with obsidian, the unmistakable gaze of something older, wilder. The above gave a single cry and launched into the air, circling once before diving and landing on Daniel's outstretched arm.
Power. Pure and absolute.
Then, as easily as a breath—it vanished.
Daniel blinked back to normal.
Arthur just stared.
"That… was excessive," he said weakly.
"That was control," Daniel replied. "Your turn."
Arthur stood still for a long moment. He could feel the magic, always buried somewhere beneath skin and bone and breath. But flaring it like that? No. That wasn't him. Not yet.
He tried. Reached inward. Focused.
But nothing happened.
Daniel simply nodded. "That's alright. It'll come."
They turned to leave, steps crunching against the cobbles.
Then—crack.
Frost spiraled from Arthur's fingertips, unbidden. His breath caught. A thin arc of ice etched itself along the bench they'd sat on. The air dipped in temperature, his veins tingling cold.
Cryomancy.
Daniel looked back, one brow raised. "Well. There's your spark."
Arthur stared at his hand. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Daniel said, smirking slightly. "You're not supposed to mean to. Not at first."
Arthur exhaled slowly. Maybe he wasn't broken after all.
A crisp voice rang out from behind them.
"I thought I said no magic in the courtyard!"
Arthur nearly jumped.
Lenora Reeves—still in her pale blue apron, wand raised and eyes narrowed—strode into view like a tempest in human form.
"Sorry, Mom," Daniel said smoothly, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Arthur wanted to train a bit. Y'know, refine his cryomancy. All very safe. Educational."
He winked.
Lenora faltered, glancing at Arthur's sheepish face. Her stern expression melted.
"Oh… well—um—if it's you, Arthur dear, I suppose that's… fine. Just… not too much, alright?"
"Yes, ma'am," Arthur said, trying not to smirk.
As Lenora turned to go, Arthur hesitated. Something had been nagging at him for hours.
"Um, Mrs. Reeves—"
"Lenora," she corrected gently without turning.
"Right… sorry. Lenora—I just noticed I haven't seen any of the maids or house elves today. Or yesterday either."
Before she could answer, Daniel stepped in with a smug grin. "That was me. We gave them three months off."
Arthur raised a brow. "Three?"
"It took six to convince your uncle," Lenora muttered, glancing skyward as if remembering every single argument.
"But we managed it," Daniel finished. "Thought the house could use a little quiet. And mom's been testing out her cooking skills."
"They've been… interesting," Arthur offered diplomatically.
Lenora narrowed her eyes again—this time fondly. "Dinner's almost ready. Don't dawdle too long, boys."
With a sweep of her robes, she disappeared down the stone path back to the house.
Daniel stretched his arms behind his head, looking pleased with himself. "You know," he said lazily, "for someone with the personality of a lightning storm, she makes the best mushroom pie I've ever had."
Arthur gave a dry laugh.
Then Daniel's tone shifted. "Come on. Dad wants to see you."
Arthur stilled. "Cassian?"
"Yeah. Said it was important."
That uneasy flutter returned to Arthur's chest. But he nodded.
He walked alone through the courtyard gates, past the rose-laced hedges, and back to the east wing balcony—the place he'd stood that morning. The air was quieter now. Cooler. The sun hung lower, casting golden light across the hills. A few birds wheeled in the sky, and beneath it all, the low hum of something familiar stir