The buzz in the hall hadn't died yet.
Even though the Sorting was over, the electricity in the air remained — a shimmering tension that clung to the walls like static after a storm. Nervous laughter skipped across the long rows of enchanted candles. Excitement pulsed in the clatter of silverware and the shifting of robes. Unspoken questions darted like dragonflies through the minds of the first-years, who sat a little too straight, their eyes wide and darting between their new surroundings and the upper years who seemed so settled, so confident — a tidal wave of tradition and experience.
It was a moment on the edge of something. The breath before the plunge.
Then it began.
Without warning, the silver badges pinned neatly to each first year's clothes shimmered, the magic crackling to life. A collective inhale swept the room. The flat gleam of the badges melted, the dull sheen rippling like water kissed by moonlight — restless, alive, shifting.
They changed — with purpose.
A badge of cool silver dissolved into deep iron, its core darkening, hardening. Golden edges flared like claw marks dragged through molten metal, wild and sharp. The emblem of Wampus — fierce, untamed, proud.
Another twisted on its own axis, spinning before settling into a radiant disk of silver and cobalt blue. Its enamel shimmered with fine fractal lines — delicate yet intricate, as though someone had etched the shape of thought itself into its surface. Horned Serpent — wisdom woven into steel.
Others unfurled like leaves in spring. Their badges bloomed into hues of forest green and earthen copper, curling with vine-like etchings, their surfaces catching the soft glow of candlelight. Pukwudgie. Gentle. Loyal. Grounded in strength quiet as stone.
And then there were those — like Arthur's — that flared with wild power.
His badge sparked violently, color surging from within as if lit by an internal storm. Bronze overtook silver, dark and storm-brushed, and then lightning cracked across the surface in jagged, branching lines. It gleamed with movement, with promise. With thunder.
Thunderbird.
Arthur stared, breath caught in his throat. His heart thumped like a drum in his ears as the storm settled into his chest.
The last of the magical flickering died out, leaving behind the final forms. On his badge, the Thunderbird's wings stretched wide — proud, defiant — and veins of lightning still shimmered faintly beneath the bronze, like a storm caught behind glass.
He exhaled.
And just like that — the dam burst.
The hall exploded in sound.
Upper years leaned over benches, reaching to clap shoulders and ruffle hair. Laughter rang out — easy, familiar, like it had always been waiting to return. The professors at the head table began chatting amongst themselves, some grinning, others laughing outright. Wagers lost, bets won. Names matched to houses. The first-year uncertainty gave way to something brighter — connection.
Arthur was still staring at his badge when a voice beside him, light and teasing, sliced through his thoughts.
"There it is."
The girl with storm-colored eyes and a badge already glowing Thunderbird gold nodded at his chest. "Bold move."
Arthur blinked, still caught in the aftershock. "You make it sound like I picked it off a shelf."
She smirked, tilting her head. "Well, you looked like your chest was about to combust two minutes ago. Figured if you didn't pick it, it picked you hard."
"I've had quieter days."
"Welcome to the storm."
She extended a hand. Several rings glinted on her fingers, catching the candlelight and flaring like sparks of caught lightning. "I'm Calla."
Arthur reached out to shake her hand but paused mid-motion.
A cool breeze brushed his shoulder — not air, exactly.
Cool. Gentle. Familiar.
Like snow.
He didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
"Was wondering when you'd show up, Micah."
"Thunderbird," came the voice behind him — warm, proud, with just the faintest edge of smug. "Looks good on you. Welcome to the club."
Arthur turned, smiling before he even fully faced him. "Glad to be here, cuz."
Calla's brow lifted with interest. "Micah… you know him?"
Micah — pale, polished, the sort of person who made precise tea and color-coded schedules — flushed bright red.
"Y–yeah," he stammered. "He's… my cousin. Arthur Reeves."
Arthur froze.
Micah. Stammering.
He turned and stared at his cousin properly — and barely recognized him.
Micah, who usually walked like he was two seconds from scolding a hallway into order, looked completely out of depth. His usual librarian-with-a-sword composure had cracked like thin ice.
Arthur followed his gaze.
Calla.
Ah.
Oh.
OH.
Arthur gave a very polite, very fake laugh and grabbed Micah by the wrist.
"Pardon us. Urgent cousin business."
He yanked Micah a few steps down the table before turning on him.
"You good?"
Micah groaned into his hands. "No. I'm doomed. Also yes. Thanks for the extraction."
Arthur peered back toward Calla. "What happened?"
Micah's voice came muffled through his fingers.
"That's what I get for talking to my… crush."
Arthur frowned. "Crush? Like… the drink?"
Micah pulled his hands away slowly. "…Are you serious?"
Arthur blinked. "I mean, yeah? Isn't that—?"
"You're seriously serious?" Micah grabbed him by the shoulders. "Arthur. You do see girls, right? Like — you notice they're girls?"
Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it. Tilted his head.
Across the room, a silver-haired girl caught his eye. She waved — warm, casual.
He frowned. Tried to see her, really see her.
Still… just a student.
Just someone who might've borrowed a textbook from him at Hogwarts.
He turned back to Micah.
"Yeah… Not happening."
Before Micah could offer sympathy, a shadow fell over them.
"I smell something about 'lost' and 'cause'. I hope you're not talking about me."
Arthur didn't need to turn.
"Dorian," he groaned.
"Micah, our cousin's hopeless," Dorian said cheerfully, appearing at Arthur's side like summoned chaos. "Apparently he doesn't see the opposite gender as the opposite gender."
Arthur's hair flared white in alarm. "You're not—"
"I'm sorry," Dorian said, utterly unrepentant. "It must be done."
He shoved Arthur. Hard.
Arthur staggered.
This is not going to end well.
He stumbled straight into someone.
Warm. Soft. Soft? Definitely a human being.
"Nope," he muttered. "That's someone."
He looked up.
Silver hair. Clear eyes. A gentle smile like sunlight on snow.
The girl from earlier.
Still waving — just… with her face now.
Arthur's badge still glowed.
His hair — still white.
"I—I'm so sorry," he blurted, stumbling back like he'd set her on fire with a handshake.
She brushed herself off with a graceful flick of her hand. "No harm done."
Up close, she felt… different.
Not just another face in the hall.
Not just a classmate.
Something about her settled into the hollow behind his ribs and stayed.
"You're Arthur, right?"
Arthur blinked.
"Yeah… Arthur. Reeves. Arthur Reeves. 3rd year."
She smiled, unbothered by the repeat.
"I'm Evelyne. 3rd year. Thunderbird too, although more stable on my feet."
They talked — slowly at first, awkward but oddly easy. Her voice was warm, low and steady, like tea poured into a ceramic mug. She had a calm curiosity that didn't pry. Arthur found himself relaxing, answering questions like he was reciting familiar charms.
Then —
"Alright now, everyone — settle down! We'll have plenty of time for gossip after you've eaten!"
The professor's voice carried across the hall, sharp but cheerful.
Evelyne turned to Arthur. "See you later?
"Yeah
Arthur returned to his seat, heat still clinging to his cheeks.
Micah looked like someone had hexed his soul.
Calla raised a slow eyebrow.
"So," she said, stirring her water like it was tea. "Do you crash into girls often, or is this a Thunderbird thing?"
Arthur dropped his head to the table.
"Shut up and eat."
With a flick of the professor's wand, golden trays filled with steaming food — roasted meat, buttery vegetables, thick slices of bread, and aromatic stews that made the entire hall smell like home.
Arthur looked around, at faces full of laughter and wonder, and let the moment sink into his bones.
He finally breathed.
And for the first time that day —
he felt like he'd landed exactly where he was meant to be.
As the last echoes of clinking goblets faded and golden plates vanished from the long tables in shimmering waves, the staff shared subtle, silent gestures—nods, glances, the closing of a book, the extinguishing of a candle by hand.
∆∆∆∆
At the center dais, one professor stood. Tall, stern, and robed in layers that crackled like parchment, her cloak unfurled behind her like jagged wings forged from midnight storms. She raised a single hand, fingers thin and pale as bone.
"First-years and new transfers," she called, her voice smooth as oil and sharp as thunder, "follow your House Prefects to your dormitories. Returners, you are dismissed."
The spell was broken.
The Great Hall burst into motion—benches scraped, laughter bloomed, and groups fractured like puzzle pieces thrown to the wind. Students hugged, shouted, vanished into doorways. Candles dimmed above, the enchanted ceiling showing clouds already parting to reveal stars.
Arthur stood, heart fluttering in his chest like a moth trapped beneath glass.
"Thunderbirds, to me!" rang out a commanding voice, clear as a bell and layered with some quiet storm behind it.
A tall girl with coppery hair and a staff tipped with a crackling blue crystal stood by one of the exits. She was no older than sixteen, but she carried herself like someone who had faced giants and walked away laughing.
Arthur glanced toward Micah and Calla. His cousin was leaning back in his chair, arms behind his head like he owned the moonlight.
"See you later?" Arthur asked, his voice a little too hopeful.
Micah gave a lazy two-finger salute, grin crooked. "Try not to get lost, cousin. Thunderbird's basically a glorified attic."
Calla arched an eyebrow at him. "You'd be lucky to even breathe that high up."
Arthur made a face and turned quickly, not wanting them to see the mix of nerves and thrill bubbling in his chest.
They followed the Thunderbird prefect through winding halls that curved upward, ever upward, like they were ascending into the backbone of the sky itself. The corridors narrowed as they rose, the ceilings sloped, and the stone underfoot began to feel different—smoother, older, humming with invisible tension.
The very air changed. It was cooler now, thinner, touched by something wild and wide. It smelled faintly of distant storms and forgotten places.
Glowing orbs floated just above their heads, shedding golden light in soft pulses that made the carved runes on the walls shimmer. Occasionally, one would drift closer to a student who seemed nervous or tired, like it was offering comfort.
"Thunderbirds," said the prefect without turning, "are the soul of the sky. The seekers. The ones who ask why not instead of why. Our dorm sits at the highest peak in the school. It's not just for the view. It's because we always look forward. And upward."
Arthur found himself breathing deeper, even though his legs ached. Something in him responded to the words—the part that wanted to leap before thinking, to climb higher just to see.
A younger boy near him whispered, "Feels like we're going to touch the stars."
Arthur didn't reply, but a smile crept onto his face.
Finally, the stairway gave way to a landing framed by an archway carved with elemental symbols. Lightning forked across it in silver relief. Beneath it: a door—not cloud or mist like some had imagined, but solid wood, blackened by time and veined with storm-colored runes.
It rumbled open.
The Thunderbird common room stretched wide and welcoming, carved into the spire like a heart placed high above the world. It wasn't just a room—it was alive.
Candle-birds with flame-feathered wings fluttered from perch to perch, leaving trails of ember-light in the air like falling stars. They chirped softly as students entered, occasionally landing on outstretched hands or shoulders.
Windows arched toward the heavens, revealing not just the stars, but the movement of clouds beneath them—beneath them—like the castle floated.
Book-nooks lined the walls, hollowed into thick stone, stuffed with cushions and stitched quilts. In one, a fifth-year already had her feet up with a book in hand and tea hovering beside her. She winked at Arthur as he passed.
At the center of the room floated the sculpture—massive, obsidian, wings spread, its form halfway between bird and bolt. Veins of silver lightning pulsed through it like veins, and it responded—to joy, to fear, to curiosity. When Arthur looked at it, the color inside shimmered violet, then a slow gold.
Maps clung to one wall—magical ones, their cities and seas shifting under the surface. Notes pinned in different handwriting filled the space around them.
"To learn what he left behind."
"To reach the edge of the world."
"To find home."
Above them, the ceiling shifted in slow, dreamy waves. Stars. Then auroras. Then rolling clouds with flashes of distant storms. A Thunderbird passed overhead—just an illusion—but Arthur instinctively ducked.
The prefect turned with a grin.
"Welcome," she said. "I'm Celes Arden, Thunderbird Quidditch Captain. Sixth-year, Adventuring Major. And this—" they spun slowly, arms wide—"is your new home."
Arthur caught the way the room seemed to brighten with her words. It responded.
"This space will change with you," Celes said. "It listens. It remembers. It grows. Thunderbirds don't fit in cages. That includes this one."
Laughter rippled through the group.
Then Celes held up something in her hand—a silver-blue ring that shimmered with hidden stars.
"These are your rings."
A table blinked into existence beside her, velvet-lined, covered in rows of glimmering rings. Each bore a different opal center—storm blue, starlight silver, warm amethyst. Twin wings wrapped around each gem.
"They're keyed to you. You'll use them to enter the tower, your dorm, and select magical zones in the school. They respond only to their wearer. And yes, before you ask—yes, they will glow dramatically when you're being emotional. It's adorable."
Laughter again.
Arthur stepped forward and found his. The stone shimmered like summer rain and seafoam. As he slipped it on, it warmed instantly—like he'd completed a circuit he hadn't known was missing.
Later, guided by light and instinct, Arthur found his way to the boys' dorm wing—its corridor sloping upward again, winding one final time toward the stars. His ring glowed faintly, leading him forward.
Doors marked with runes passed on either side. Laughter, footsteps, someone tuning a flute echoed faintly behind them. Some doors were open, showing rooms in disarray already. One was completely filled with floating paper birds.
Arthur's room was at the very top.
The door was heavy, old, and bore the Thunderbird crest inlaid in bronze. It responded to his ring with a quiet chime and swung open slowly, like it had been waiting a long time.
The room was large—too large for one person. Four beds were arranged around the space, each one suspended a few inches above the ground, floating on invisible currents. The beds had different headboards—one looked like driftwood, another polished brass, one shaped like a soaring feather. Arthur's was by the wide arched window, and as he stepped toward it, the enchanted curtains parted like mist, revealing the world beyond in high definition.
The room smelled faintly of wind after rain, paper, and cedarwood.
His was the only bed with signs of life—fresh sheets, folded robes, a small trunk with the academy seal. The others, untouched and perfectly made, stood like quiet ghosts waiting for occupants who would never arrive. Arthur's room had been assigned only to him.
He glanced at a low table near his bed and spotted a fruit bowl, still cool with condensation. On a nearby shelf, a compass floated in a slow, lazy spin beside a small crystal globe glowing with a storm inside.
The walls shifted slightly with his mood—tones of deep blue and silver threading through, then softening to quiet greens as he sat down on the bed.
The mattress cradled him, adjusting until it felt like it was made for him and only him.