The castle had gone still. Not silent — never silent — but still, in that way only Hogwarts could be after midnight: portraits asleep, torches guttering low, the air itself holding its breath.
Alden and Snape walked in silence through the lower corridors, the rhythm of their steps echoing off the cold stone. Snape's robes swept behind him like a shadow that refused to let go. Alden followed half a pace behind, his own footfalls measured, the faint sheen of torchlight tracing silver through his hair.
Neither spoke. They didn't need to. The weight of what had happened in the Great Hall lingered between them — a ghost walking at their side.
When they reached the Potions classroom, Snape drew his wand and flicked it once. The iron door swung open with a low groan.
Inside, the familiar smell of asphodel and damp parchment hung thick in the air. Green firelight from the wall sconces reflected in jars of pickled roots and powdered bone. The only sound was the faint crackle of flame from the hearth.
Snape crossed to his desk, motioned for Alden to close the door, and remained standing — hands braced on the table, head bowed slightly. His voice, when it came, was low but razor-sharp.
"Do you have any idea," he said, "what you've done?"
Alden stopped beside the empty chair opposite, straight-backed, expression unreadable.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you?" Snape looked up, dark eyes cutting through the gloom. "You shattered a ward drawn by Albus Dumbledore. Publicly. You turned half the school into fanatics overnight."He leaned forward slightly. "And you used a spell I have only ever heard of in passing — a spell that should not exist outside the pages of history."
He let that hang, watching for any twitch, any break in composure. Alden offered none.
"It's called Aeternum Fractura, isn't it?" Snape continued, his tone measured now. "I've heard Dumbledore speak of it. A conceptual counter-ward, developed during the height of the continental dueling wars. It doesn't destroy barriers — it convinces them their purpose is already fulfilled."A pause. "Gellert Grindelwald's circle specialized in such blasphemies."
Alden's gaze didn't waver. The firelight drew faint reflections in his eyes — molten grey and green.
"It's not blasphemy if it works."
Snape's eyes narrowed.
"You think that's clever?"
"No," Alden replied simply. "Just true."
Snape exhaled through his nose, irritation and curiosity warping together. He moved around the desk, the hem of his cloak whispering across the flagstones.
"You realize the entire staff now believes you're capable of things most Aurors can barely comprehend. You've painted yourself into a very dangerous light, Mr. Dreyse. And for what?"He stopped in front of him. "Why did you enter? You're not reckless. You don't seek attention. So what changed?"
Alden hesitated — not out of fear, but out of calculation. When he spoke, it was quieter, softer, like he was telling the truth not to confess, but to understand it himself.
"At first, I didn't intend to."He looked down briefly, then met Snape's eyes again. "Draco wouldn't stop talking about it. Others kept asking. I ignored them. But last night, Theo and I were the only ones left in the hall. I was studying the weave of the Age Line when Dumbledore came."
Snape's brows lifted slightly.
"He spoke to you?"
"He said he'd be… most impressed if someone showed him something unexpected."A faint smile touched Alden's lips, not arrogant — almost ironic. "I couldn't sleep afterward. I kept thinking about it — about what it meant to surprise someone who already understands everything."
Snape crossed his arms.
"So you broke one of his spells to impress him?"
"No." Alden shook his head. "I broke it to understand it."He paused. "And to prove something."
Snape's voice lowered.
"To whom?"
"Everyone," Alden said quietly. "To the Ministry, to Hogwarts, to him."His tone sharpened slightly. "That magic isn't light or dark. It isn't good or evil. It's will. It's how it's wielded. I entered the Tournament to show that difference. That the boundaries everyone worships—"He glanced at the flames. "—are illusions that deserve to fall."
The fire hissed softly, throwing green light over the rows of bottled ingredients. For a long moment, Snape said nothing.
Then, finally—
"You sound like someone I once knew."
Alden didn't ask who. He didn't need to.
Snape moved behind his desk again, his tone cooling back to formality.
"Breaking Dumbledore's spell was no small feat," he said. "And whether you realize it or not, you've painted a target on your back. Karkaroff will dig. Moody will watch. Dumbledore will question. You've made yourself a problem that everyone wants to solve."
Alden nodded once.
"I'm used to being a problem."
That earned a flicker of something rare from Snape — not a smile, but the faintest ghost of approval.
"See that you stay an intelligent one," Snape said finally, turning toward the shelves. "And for Merlin's sake, try not to give the Headmaster another heart attack before breakfast."
Alden inclined his head.
"No promises, sir."
Snape's cloak whispered as he reached for a vial of powdered valerian, pretending to examine it.
"Go," he said quietly. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, the real spectacle begins."
Alden turned toward the door. As he stepped out, the torchlight caught on his wand hand — steady, precise, still faintly trembling from power rather than nerves.
When the door closed behind him, Snape remained at his desk, staring at the fire, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he murmured under his breath, more to the shadows than to himself:
"Just like him… and yet not at all."
The green fire flickered once, throwing both names — Dreyse and Dumbledore — against the stone in the same light.
The corridors were empty when Alden left the dungeons. Torchlight stretched thin across the flagstones, long and low, flickering in rhythm with his footsteps. The castle's hum had quieted into that peculiar stillness Hogwarts only held after spectacle — when gossip had just begun to take root in every dormitory, waiting to grow teeth by morning.
Snape's words lingered behind him like a scent that wouldn't wash off.
You've painted a target on your back . You sound like someone I once knew.
Alden's expression didn't change, but his thoughts were sharper than the echo of his boots. The cat was out of the bag, then — not just that he knew advanced magic, but that he'd used it. Before a full hall. Before Dumbledore.
There would be no putting that back.
He turned down the familiar corridor toward the stone serpent wall that guarded the Slytherin entrance. The torchlight thinned to a green glow. Shadows pooled like ink along the corners.
Fear? Envy? Admiration? he wondered as he stopped before the carved serpent. Which one will it be? Or all three?
"Vitrum sanguis," he said softly — the password. The serpent's eyes gleamed, and the wall slid open.
Sound struck him like a wave.
The Slytherin common room was alive.
Green fire roared in the hearth, banners had been torn from the walls and waved like war flags, and half the House was standing on the armchairs, cups raised. The moment he stepped through the archway, the roar hit full force:
"DREYSE!""He shattered it!""Did you see Dumbledore's face?""Fourteen and broke the Headmaster's own ward—Merlin's beard—" Hogwarts doesn't need Potter—Dreyse'll take them all!"
He stood just inside the doorway, caught in the blaze of green light and noise. His silver hair glowed almost white under the torchflames — a banner of its own.
Draco was the first to reach him, cheeks flushed with triumph.
"Alden, that was bloody brilliant!" he said, gripping his arm. "They were chanting your name in the hall after you left! Half the school's still arguing whether it was even possible—"
"They'll get used to it," Alden said quietly, though the faint curve of his mouth almost passed for a smile.
Behind Draco, Theo and Daphne were watching from the table near the fire. Theo's expression was half-amused, half-resigned — he'd seen this coming. Daphne's eyes, bright and unreadable, flicked over Alden like she was memorizing him.
"Guess you're not sleeping tonight," Theo said dryly over the din.
"Or this week," Daphne added, raising her cup. "To Alden Dreyse — the boy who broke Dumbledore."
The room howled approval. Someone banged a goblet against the stone, and more laughter followed.
Across the room, older Slytherins — Warrington, Montague, even a few seventh-years — nodded in rare respect.
"About time someone reminded them who runs this castle," one muttered."Let the Gryffindors have their Chosen One," another said. "We've got our champion."
It was everything Slytherin craved: brilliance, defiance, triumph — and one of their own delivering it. For the first time in years, the House wasn't divided by bloodlines or whispers. It was united by awe.
Alden moved through them with quiet precision — accepting congratulations, a few handshakes, but offering little more than a nod or a murmured thank you . The noise washed over him but didn't reach inside. Not really.
He stopped near the fire, looking into the emerald flames as they danced against the serpent carvings on the mantle. The green light reflected in his eyes — colder, more thoughtful than triumphant.
Theo drifted up beside him, lowering his voice beneath the roar of celebration.
"You don't look like someone who just made history."
Alden's gaze didn't move from the flames.
"History's easy to make," he said softly. "It's harder to survive it."
Theo frowned slightly but didn't answer. Daphne, still watching from her seat, tilted her head — curious, almost admiring.
Behind them, the cheering continued: loud, feverish, unrestrained. The sound of a House that believed it had finally found its legend.
But as Alden stared into the fire, his thoughts cut through the noise, sharp and quiet:
Let them cheer now. The real work begins in the silence after.
The green flames flared higher, licking at the carved serpents above the hearth — reflections twisting across Alden's face until he almost looked carved from the same fire.
The light in the Slytherin dormitory was different that morning — softer, the kind that bled through green water and half-drawn curtains. Alden woke before the others, as he often did. The room smelled faintly of old parchment and cold stone. His wand lay across his bedside table, perfectly parallel to the spine of a book he'd fallen asleep reading — On the Theory of Magical Equilibrium.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck, listening to the steady rhythm of the Black Lake outside the window. The world felt quieter than it had any right to, after what he'd done.
The castle itself seemed to be watching him now.
He dressed in silence: pressed uniform, tie straight, cuffs precise. When he passed the mirror, it caught him in a shaft of pale light — silver hair like smoke, eyes unreadable, the faint shadow of sleeplessness beneath the m. He looked… composed. Exactly as everyone expected him to be.
The murmurs reached him before he even reached the stairs.
When he stepped into the common room, conversation died — then reignited twice as loud.
The room was alive again: green fire roaring, banners still draped over chairs, clusters of students gathered around tables, parchment and Prophet clippings everywhere.
Someone at the far end saw him first.
"Dreyse!"
A dozen heads turned. Then, as if on cue, applause rippled through the room. A few whistled; others stood.
"There he is!""He actually broke it—"Fourth-year, can you believe that?""Hogwarts' best chance — he'll flatten Potter and the rest!"
Alden paused near the base of the stairs, the noise washing over him like a tide he'd expected. He offered the faintest nod — acknowledgment without indulgence — and crossed toward the long table by the fire.
The older students rose slightly as he passed, respectful in the way soldiers might salute a general they didn't quite understand.
Warrington, the burly seventh-year who'd been the first Slytherin to submit his name to the Goblet, leaned forward with a grin.
"Morning, Champion. You slept through half of breakfast — they're still talking about you upstairs. The Prophet's already running the headline: 'Boy Breaks Dumbledore's Magic — Hogwarts' Youngest Competitor.'"
"Not a headline I asked for," Alden said mildly, taking a seat.
"You'll have to get used to it." Warrington chuckled. "When's the first task, then? You've got the whole castle wondering what you'll face."
Alden glanced toward the fire — its green glow steady and calm.
"November twenty-fourth," he said. "Twenty-four days."
That answer seemed to electrify the table. The younger Slytherins leaned in; whispers rippled through the crowd. Someone started muttering about betting pools; another scribbled on parchment.
Cassius, a lean, sharp-eyed seventh-year known for his dueling medals, leaned across from the next table.
"Twenty-four days."He tapped his wand against the wood thoughtfully."That's plenty of time to prepare. You'll need every edge you can get. If you want help — hexes, counter-curses, shielding runes — I've got notes from the Duelling Club archives. I'll share them."
A few others nodded in agreement.
"We could train in the old practice room by the dungeons.""You'll need defensive counters, at least.""Or something flashy. Show them Slytherin doesn't just play safe."
Alden let them speak for a moment, the noise swirling like wind around calm water. Then he raised a hand slightly, not commanding — just steady.
The room quieted.
"I appreciate the offer," he said, tone even, measured. "Truly. But I'll be all right."
Cassius frowned.
"You sure? You're representing all of us now, Dreyse. No shame in taking help."
Alden's eyes flicked toward him — not sharp, but deliberate.
"If I win, I want it to be because my intent was stronger. Not because my spells were borrowed."
The words sank like stones into still water. A few nodded slowly; others exchanged glances — respect, disbelief, maybe even unease.
Then Theo's voice rose from the side table, breaking the heaviness.
"You heard him," he said, smirking. "He's got it handled. The rest of you can just start planning what to chant when he wins."
Laughter broke the tension. Draco raised his goblet, grinning widely.
"To Alden Dreyse — Slytherin's champion. And Hogwarts', whether the rest of them like it or not."
Cheers followed, echoing off the dungeon walls. Alden raised his cup halfway, the gesture polite but not boastful.
The noise continued around him — laughter, chatter, ambition. The Slytherin engineis in motion again, fueled by pride and potential.
But inside, Alden's thoughts were already elsewhere. He looked toward the fire, green flame flickering like thought made visible, and the reflection in his eyes was steady, distant.
Twenty-four days, he thought. Twenty-four days to prove intent isn't divided by color or creed. To provethat the line between light and dark can be rewritten.
He exhaled softly through his nose, the faintest smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth.
Let them cheer. When the time comes, they'll see what belief really looks like.
The fire crackled in agreement, painting his face in shades of green and gold — calm amid the House's storm.
The library always smelled of parchment, candlewax, and quiet ambition — the scent of those who believed silence could make them stronger. That Sunday morning, however, it smelled faintly of him.
Alden entered with the same composure he carried into everything: books under his arm, sleeves neat, posture sharp as calligraphy. But even before he reached the first row of tables, the whispers began.
They followed him like an echo.
"That's him.""Dreyse. The one who broke Dumbledore's line.""Fourteen, can you imagine?""He's dangerous, that one—just look at him.""Snape's been teaching him things, I bet—advanced stuff—"
The words darted like fish beneath still water, just below hearing, quick and glinting. Alden didn't turn his head once. His stride was even, measured, until he reached the back corner — his usual seat beneath the north window, where morning light filtered through old glass and painted soft green patterns on the table.
He set his books down. The last one landed with a quiet thud, and the whispers dimmed, if only because no one wanted to be caught staring.
Madam Pince looked up from the counter, eyes narrowing behind her spectacles — perhaps at the noise, perhaps in awe. Alden gave her the faintest nod of acknowledgment and opened the first book. The sound of parchment turning felt louder than any rumor.
The assignment was Professor Flitwick's — a charm transposition essay due Tuesday, requiring written notation and demonstration. Alden's parchment was already half-filled with narrow, elegant script. He adjusted his quill, dipped it once, and began to write again.
His hand moved in controlled rhythm, each line a piece of spell structure — syllables, stresses, wand motions, variable inflection patterns. It was the kind of work he preferred: quiet, complex, unobserved.
But Hogwarts refused to stay quiet for him.
A cluster of Ravenclaws at a nearby table pretended to study, their eyes flicking toward him between every paragraph. A Gryffindor — older, bold — whispered something to his friend, who snorted under his breath. Even a Hufflepuff further down the row kept stealing glances, curiosity winning over manners.
Alden's quill did not slow . He drew an arithmantic formula into the margin, the motion smooth, precise — a scholar's defense against noise. But his mind, for all its discipline, caught fragments.
Prodigy.Pretender.Dark.Champion.
Labels. Everyone wanted one. Everyone needed to define what they couldn't understand.
He finished the last sentence of his paragraph and set the quill aside. The ink gleamed faintly blue in the light. For a moment, he just watched it dry — breathing evenly, grounding himself in the small ritual of order.
Then, a voice from behind him broke the balance.
"Working already?"
It was Theo, standing with a lazy grin, half a stack of notes under his arm. He slid into the chair across from Alden without waiting for permission.
"You do realize the rest of Slytherin's still celebrating like we just won a war?"
Alden turned a page.
"Wars end. Homework doesn't."
Theo chucklly, glancing at the neat rows of script.
"Flitwick's assignment?"
"Due Tuesday."
"Of course." Theo leaned back, lowering his voice. "You know they're all talking about you, right? The library's half gossip, half pilgrimage. Someone even said Dumbledore tried to rebuild the Age Line this morning, and it wouldn't take."
Alden's quill paused in midair, just for a second. Then it resumed its rhythm.
"Magic remembers intent," he said softly. "Sometimes it refuses to forget."
Theo blinked.
"You make it sound like it's alive."
"It is," Alden murmured. "At least to those who listen."
Theo stared for a moment, then shook his head in that familiar way — equal parts baffled and impressed.
"You're a riddle wrapped in a school uniform, you know that?"
"Better a riddle than a warning," Alden replied without looking up.
Theo laughed under his breath, low enough not to draw Pince's wrath.
The whispers had softened by then, replaced by that taut, uncomfortable quiet that came when the subject of a rumor refused to behave like one. Alden turned another page, calm and focused, as if the entire castle hadn't changed its orbit overnight.
Outside, through the tall arched windows, the Black Lake rippled in slow, green-gold light. Alden looked at it for a heartbeat, and his reflection in the glass looked back — the same calm face, but something sharper behind the eyes.
Twenty-four days, he thought again Letet them whisper. Let them wonder. When it begins, I'll show them what intent truly means.
He returned to his work, the sound of the quill scratching steady and sure —A quiet defiance against the noise of the world.