Arthur hadn't slept much. Not because of nightmares—but because his mind refused to stop running. His mother's voice still echoed through him—soft, firm, achingly familiar. Not like ink on paper. Like a memory returned from the grave.
He sat up on the edge of the bed. Elira perched on the windowsill, looking severely unimpressed by the morning light.
"You look like you were mauled by insomnia," she said, ruffling her feathers with an indignant shiver. "Did it win?"
Arthur shot her a sideways glance. "I'm fine."
"That's a lie, and a lazy one," Elira sniffed. "If you're going to be brooding dramatically, at least do it near a fireplace. With shadows. And thunder, if possible."
He ignored her, running a hand through his hair. Still shifting color. Still refusing to settle. It looked storm-grey now—like clouds just before a downpour. He had no idea what it meant.
"She said his name like I was supposed to know him," he muttered. "Cassian Reeves. My uncle. I didn't even know I had one."
"She also said to find him," Elira reminded, tilting her head. "So unless you plan on sitting here for another decade and hoping he apparates into your closet, perhaps we make a move?"
"I don't even know where to go yet," Arthur said. "She only said the address once. It's just… in my head."
"Oh, wonderful," Elira said dryly. "Our grand quest begins with amnesia. Should I start drafting your obituary now or later?"
Arthur groaned and rubbed his temples. The memory wasn't gone—it was just slippery. His mum's voice had returned to him last night as he tried to sleep. Words looping like a lullaby from a dream.
Downstairs, chaos hummed through the Potter house. Someone was yelling about toast. Lyra was shrieking—whether from joy or existential dread, it was hard to tell with her. The twins were running, somewhere.
It almost felt… safe.
That's why he barely heard the soft knock.
Lily Potter stood in the doorway with two mugs of cocoa. She looked tired in the warm, maternal way people do when they've had both children and grief.
"Room for one more?" she asked.
Arthur nodded and scooted over. She handed him a mug and sat beside him.
"James told me about the letter," she said gently.
He kept his eyes on the mug. "It wasn't really a letter. Not like that."
She didn't press. Just nodded.
"I knew your mum," Lily said after a pause. "Jean was my best friend. You'd have liked her. Brilliant. Quietly rebellious. The kind of girl who would quote obscure magical law just to win an argument—and somehow still be right."
Arthur blinked. "Really?"
"She hexed Severus once," Lily added fondly. "In front of a prefect. And then smiled so sweetly, they gave her points for it."
He gave a half-laugh despite himself.
"She always hummed when she studied," Lily said. Always one foot in two worlds—old blood and new choices. She never gave in. Not when her relatives tried to sway her. Not when they told her to pick a side in the war. She picked love. She picked your father. She picked you."
Arthur's throat tightened. The colour in his hair deepened, darkened, caught between violet and iron grey.
"She sounds like someone out of a book."
"She was," Lily whispered. "But real. Fiercely real."
A silence fell. Elira broke it with a groan.
"Touching. Really. But if no one minds, I'd like to not die in this horrid nest of sentimental cocoa and Potters. Are we leaving or not?"
"Do you mind?" Arthur snapped internally. "Some of us are having a moment."
"Oh, I noticed," Elira replied. "It's like drowning in syrup."
He rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"I'm efficient," she sniffed. "I also remember things you forget. Like addresses."
Arthur blinked. "Wait. You do?"
"I'm your owl, not your therapist," she said. "But yes. She said it in your head, and your head is loud. I remember every word."
He stared at her and without thinking he blurted out:
"You could have said that hours ago!"
"You didn't ask."
Lily chuckled softly. "She's a nightmare."
Arthur snorted. "She's my nightma—" He stopped mid-sentence, realizing Lily was still looking at him.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You do know most people don't talk back to their pets, right?"
His heart skipped.
"You knew?"
She smirked. "You made it too obvious. I figured it out days ago when you scolded her for 'taunting the cat again'… when there was no cat in the room."
Arthur groaned into his hands. "Merlin's socks…"
"Don't worry," Lily said, smiling. "Your secret's safe. But you might want to tone down the midair debates."
Lily stood up, smoothing her robes. "Well, I'll leave you to your… quest. Just be careful, alright?"
Arthur nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "Thanks...Mrs...Lily. I will."
She paused at the door, giving him one last look. "And Arthur… be careful with what you're chasing after. Not everything needs to be found."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Elira huffed. "Well, excuse me for being articulate."
Arthur stood, hands clenched around the cocoa now gone cold. He looked around the room, the room that had been his haven for weeks. Photos of James, posters of Quidditch teams he didn't support, a sock hanging off a broomstick. All so alive.
He didn't want to leave. But he couldn't stay.
He walked to his desk, reached for a crumpled bit of parchment. Wrote down what Elira repeated.
One line.
A name.
An address.
The Golden Crust, 84 Bracken Way, Northleigh, Gloucestershire.
And with that, the door of his temporary haven closed behind him.
Arthur didn't sleep. Not even a little.
He watched the sky change colour outside the Potters' guest room window, hues of blue melting into early morning gold. Elira perched silently by the wardrobe, her feathers puffed with tension.
"You sure?" she finally asked, just before dawn.
Arthur didn't look at her. He was scribbling an address at the bottom of the letter his mother left him. Her words still pulsed inside his mind like a heartbeat.
"Cassian Reeves..."
"I'm sure," he said. "But you're not coming with me."
Elira ruffled indignantly. "I always come with you."
"Not this time. If they notice you're gone too, they'll worry faster." He hesitated, then added, "Besides… I think I need to do this alone."
The owl gave him a long, unreadable look. But in the end, she didn't argue.
He tucked the folded letter into his coat pocket and quietly slipped out through the back door of the house. Morning birds chirped. Dew sparkled across the grass like spilled stardust.
He walked out into the lane behind the Potters' house, half-expecting to be stopped, to hear Harry or Theo calling after him. But the street was silent.
And then it happened.
A warm glow radiated from inside his coat. The letter was glowing—softly at first, then fiercely. Before Arthur could reach for it, the world tilted.
There was no tug like a Portkey. No snap of Apparition.
Just… light.
A strange warmth rushed over him, and then the world blinked.
He stumbled out of shadow.
The air smelled like spice, smoke, and sugar.
Arthur stood, disoriented, in the middle of an alleyway lined with narrow cobbled stones and crooked shops. A carved wooden sign hung above him, swinging gently in the breeze:
Thistleturn Lane.
It was like Diagon Alley's quieter, older cousin—filled with magic, but not the showy kind. This place breathed history. A place of locals, not tourists. Wand smoke curled from shop chimneys. A distant kettle whistled. Someone argued softly over cauldron measurements nearby.
Arthur blinked and stepped out onto the main street.
To his left stood a crooked storefront with glass globes floating in its window:
Flicker's Oddities.
Antique wands and magical relics blinked sleepily behind the glass.
Further along, a warm green awning read:
Peony & Scale – Apothecary.
The scent of herbs and roasted nettle drifted from its open door.
Opposite that, a shop stitched in faded blue lettering:
Button & Broomstick.
A mannequin in a half-finished robe winked at him.
But none of them were what he was looking for.
Arthur walked. He tried not to look lost, but the glances from passersby said otherwise. He was eleven, alone, and out of place. Witches paused mid-step to frown. One old man squinted at him, then muttered something under his breath.
Arthur's stomach growled.
He followed the scent of sugar and found himself inside a cozy sweets shop called Crumble & Crunch. Rows of enchanted fudge lined the counter. Chocolate frogs leapt in lazy circles inside glass jars.
He placed a Sickles' worth of coins on the counter and asked the shopkeeper, a squat wizard with enormous spectacles, "Have you ever heard of a place called The Golden Crust?"
The man looked up, blinked, then broke into a soft smile. "Course I have, lad. Best pies this side of Gloucestershire."
Arthur perked up. "Do you know how to get there?"
"Down this lane, take a left at the blacksmith's anvil, then follow the white cobblestones till you see the brass number plate—84 Bracken Way. Can't miss it."
Arthur nodded his thanks, chocolate frogs bouncing in his pocket.
By midday, the sun was high and warm, and he stood before it:
84 Bracken Way. The Golden Crust.
It was simple. Humble. A wooden sign creaked above the door in the breeze. Through the big front window, he saw a few witches sipping cider and eating warm meat pies, steam fogging the glass. There was a quiet calm to the place—a stillness that felt like it had existed long before he'd been born.
He stared at the door.
This was it.
Cassian Reeves is here.
He didn't know if he was ready.
But he knew he had to go in.
And so he reached for the door.