If the Great Hall had been thunder when Alden shattered the Age Line, it was stormlight now — a quieter violence that lived in the corridors, in the stairwells, in the things people thought they were whispering softly enough not to be heard.
The school had changed.
For Harry, it was the same kind of isolation he'd felt before — but heavier this time, older somehow. Gryffindor tables were split between loyalty and doubt. Hufflepuffs whispered that he'd stolen Hogwarts' glory, Ravenclaws muttered about attention-seeking, and even some younger Gryffindors gave him looks that were less hero-worship, more suspicion. Only Hermione stood beside him, her patience stretched taut by his moods.
For Alden, it was the opposite kind of solitude — not from distance, but from orbit.
Wherever he went, Slytherins followed.
They didn't trail behind him like admirers; they moved like a guard — an unspoken perimeter. They filled seats beside him in lessons, shadowed him through corridors, closed ranks when others stared too long. It wasn't protection born of friendship. It was reverence and fear twisted together — the way snakes coil around a fire to steal its warmth without daring to touch the flame.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick practically glowed when Alden entered.
"Ah, Mr. Dreyse, excellent timing — we're continuing Summoning Charms today, yes?"
"Yes, Professor," Alden said, setting down his things with his usual precision. The rest of the class turned discreetly in their seats — "discreetly" meaning everyone was staring and pretending not to.
On the far side, Harry fumbled through another attempt at Accio, his quill barely twitching on the desk. Hermione, effortlessly as always, summoned half the classroom's loose objects.
Meanwhile, Alden raised his wand with a subtle motion, not even speaking the incantation aloud. The stack of textbooks at the far end of the room floated toward him, gentle as falling leaves, arranging themselves by height when they landed.
Flitwick beamed.
"Exemplary control, Mr. Dreyse! Five points to Slytherin!"
From the back, one Gryffindor muttered something under his breath.
"Yeah, control's easy when you hex anyone who talks to you…"
The comment was meant to vanish into the noise, but Theo heard it — and turned in his chair with a look that could have cut glass.
"Careful, Weasley," he said evenly. "You're talking about our champion."
A few chuckles ran through Slytherin's side of the room. Flitwick, flustered, pretended not to hear it.
Harry only stared at the table, jaw tight.
By midweek, the rumors had metastasized into myth.
It began when two third-year girls from Ravenclaw, giggling and emboldened by curiosity, tried to approach Alden near the library doors. They never made it past Draco. By dinner, the story had become legend: that Alden Dreyse had cursed them himself — ugly warts, boils, a voice that croaked like a frog.
By morning, it had grown teeth.
"He's protecting himself," someone whispered."No — his House is. They won't let anyone near him.""He's dangerous. You saw how calm he was when he broke the Line — like he knew he could."
Slytherin didn't bother to correct them. They liked the fear.
Whenever anyone from another House so much as glanced too long, a Slytherin made sure they regretted it — subtle jinxes, spilt ink, whispers that spread faster than any counter-curse.
The result was perfect: Harry Potter became the safer target.
Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws rallied behind him now, if only because he looked human. approachable. He laughed awkwardly when they tried to comfort him. Alden, meanwhile, was the eye of a storm he hadn't built, and perhaps didn't care to stop.
Thursday morning brought another kind of tension: Double Potions.
Snape's classroom was cooler than usual, and the stone walls seemed to absorb the murmurs. The moment Alden stepped in, the conversation shifted again.
Snape didn't say a word about the tournament, but his glances said enough — sharp and measuring, half pride, half worry.
As Harry fumbled through a brew that smelled faintly of burnt nettle, Snape's voice cut through the bubbling noise:
"Perhaps, Potter, your wand-hand would fare better in practice than in self-promotion."
A few snickers followed, mostly from the Slytherin side.
Snape's eyes flicked toward Alden next.
"And as for you, Dreyse — I expect the same restraint in the Tournament that you show in class."
Alden didn't look up from the simmering cauldron he'd stabilized with a single wordless gesture.
"Of course, sir."
The potion settled into perfect color and consistency. Harry's hissed and frothed.
Snape didn't praise him — not out loud — but a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face before he turned away.
That night, as the castle grew quiet and the rumors circled like restless ghosts, Alden stood by the window of the common room. The lake beyond glowed with slow, green light. Slytherins were still talking about him in clusters near the fire — his name threaded between laughter and awe.
He listened to none of it.
Theo approached after a while, carrying two steaming cups of tea from the table.
"You do realize they've turned you into a myth, right?"
"Myths are useful," Alden said softly, eyes still on the water. "They distract from what's real."
"And what's real?"
A pause. The flicker of a smile.
"Intent."
He took the tea, quiet as a secret, and turned back to the lake. The reflection of his silver hair shimmered faintly across the surface — half boy, half legend — and somewhere deep under the water, something stirred, as if even the lake was listening.
The air in the dungeons always felt heavier on Fridays. Alden could taste the iron tang of the stones, the faint bitterness of potion residue that clung to the walls — the scent of glass, salt, and heat.
He arrived early, as always. Theo and Daphne flanked him, hands in their pockets, the practiced ease of those who didn't need to talk to fill the silence. Alden had already set his satchel down on the front table and opened his Advanced Drafts of Potion-Brewing. His notes were immaculate — ink fine as spider thread, margins full of formulas and annotations written in his narrow, slanted hand.
He didn't need to reread them, but he did anyway. Focus was a better shield than conversation.
Outside, beyond the half-open door, he could hear the faint hum of voices — laughter with an edge, a dozen sharp little sounds that meant something cruel was coming.
By the time Harry and Hermione descended into the corridor, the Slytherins were waiting. And waiting loudly.
Every one of them — Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, even a few fourth-years — wore gleaming badges on their robes. The faint red light from the sconces reflected off the letters like embers.
SUPPORT ALDEN DREYSE — THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION!
Harry froze mid-step, face tightening, and for one delirious second, thought they'd joined S.P.E.W. But then Draco pressed a finger against the badge — and the letters bled green, reshaping, twisting into a cruel sneer.
POTTER STINKS.
Laughter detonated through the corridor.
Draco stood at the front of it all, eyes bright and mocking, spinning the badge on his chest like a medal.
"Like them, Potter?" he drawled, voice carrying easily through the dungeon corridor. "I had them specially made. But wait—there's more!"
He pressed it again. The message flickered back and forth — red to green, green to red — alternating between the two phrases like a heartbeat.
"Two for the price of one. Champion and charity case."
The Slytherins roared with laughter. Crabbe and Goyle clapped him on the shoulder; Pansy nearly doubled over with glee. The corridor echoed with their noise.
Inside the classroom, Alden didn't even look up. He was still scribbling in his book, the scratch of his quill perfectly even. But Theo's lips had tightened, and Daphne's eyes flicked toward the door, her expression somewhere between disdain and disappointment.
"You'd think they'd have found new entertainment by now," Theo muttered.
"They think they're protecting him," Daphne said softly, crossing her arms. "Idiots don't realize they're just making him look worse."
Alden turned a page.
"Let them," he murmured, not unkindly. "It's in their nature to hiss at what they don't understand."
Daphne smiled faintly.
"That sounded almost poetic."
"Observation often does."
Out in the corridor, things were unraveling.
Hermione's patience had already worn thin.
"Oh, very funny," she snapped at Pansy Parkinson and her gaggle of Slytherin girls. "Truly inspired work, that. You'll be in Witch Weekly's comedy column any day now."
Pansy's shrill laughter only rose higher.
"Maybe I'll dedicate my first joke to your boyfriend, Granger. Want a badge? They're free."
"No thanks," Hermione said icily, "I don't wear trash."
The laughter faltered, sharp and quick. Draco stepped forward, extending one of the badges toward her like bait.
"Go on, take one," he said. "Plenty to go around. Just don't touch my hand — I've just washed it, and I'd hate to get Mudblood on my sleeve."
Hermione's breath caught, and for a moment, Harry saw red.
He didn't even realize his hand had gone for his wand until it was already out — his grip white-knuckled, his chest tight with anger that had been building for days. The corridor was scattered — students stepping back, excitement and fear sparking off their faces.
"Harry—" Hermione's voice was warning, tight.
Draco's grin widened, lazy and cruel. He drew his own wand, lifting it in perfect mockery.
"Go on, then, Potter," he said, his voice dropping low. "Moody's not here to look after you now… do it, if you've got the guts."
The light from the sconces flickered between them — two figures locked in the charged stillness before lightning.
Inside the classroom, Alden's quill finally stopped. He looked up, eyes calm, gaze fixed on the door — not alarmed, not intrigued, simply listening.
Theo leaned closer.
"He's going to do it, isn't he?"
"No," Alden said quietly. "He'll remember what it costs."
Then, after a beat, his eyes softened — not in pity, but in understanding.
"But anger's a kind of honesty too."
And from the corridor, they heard the first sparks of a spell ignite.
The light of two spells collided midair like a scream. Red met white — and both shattered.
The explosion wasn't loud, but it was bright, searing the dungeon corridor in a burst of ricocheting color. Goyle howled, clutching his face as boils erupted like blisters of molten wax. Hermione, a heartbeat later, gasped — then whimpered, hands clapped over her mouth.
"Hermione!" Ron shouted, rushing forward.
She tried to speak but choked, eyes wide with terror as her front teeth began to grow — past her lip, past her chin — inch after inch, grotesque and unstoppable. Her hands trembled as she tried to cover them.
The laughter began almost immediately.
Pansy Parkinson shrieked, collapsing against Millicent Bulstrode. Crabbe wheezed. The Slytherin corridor filled with the ugly chorus of mockery, echoing off the stone.
"And what is all this noise about?"
The laughter died.
Snape's voice was a knife through the air — quiet, deadly. He emerged from the dungeon doorway like a shadow given shape, black robes trailing, eyes gleaming.
"Explain," he said, pointing a long finger at Malfoy.
"Potter attacked me, sir!" Draco said immediately, trying to sound injured, though his smirk betrayed him.
"We attacked each other!" Harry shouted. "At the same time!"
"— and he hit Goyle! Look!"
Snape turned, glanced at Goyle — whose face was now an abstract painting of pulsating boils — and said calmly,
"Hospital wing, Goyle."
Goyle stumbled away with Crabbe, still clutching his face.
Ron stepped forward, voice shaking with fury.
"Malfoy got Hermione! Look!"
He pulled her hand away from her face. The corridor gasped.
Her teeth had grown nearly down to her collar. Hermione let out a small, broken sob, tears streaking her cheeks as Pansy's laughter burst out again — hysterical and mean.
Snape's expression didn't flicker.
"I see no difference," he said softly.
The laughter came like thunder this time.
Pansy screamed with glee. Even a few older Slytherins in the back snorted into their hands. Daphne's laughter hit first — sharp and startled — before she clamped both hands over her mouth, shaking silently with giggles.
Theo tried to swallow his own laugh, shoulders trembling, but when Daphne elbowed him, and Snape's words replayed in his head, he choked, wheezing halfway between laughter and disbelief.
"Oh Merlin," he whispered, voice strangled with mirth.
Alden, meanwhile, had already slipped past them into the classroom. He hadn't even turned his head during the exchange. The moment Snape had appeared, he'd simply moved — calm, automatic. Now he was at his workstation, pulling vials from his satchel, arranging them like a ritual.
The ingredients for the Draught of Peace spread across the table: powdered asphodel, crushed moonstone, syrup of hellebore. Each motion of his hand was precise, economical, untouched by the noise behind him.
Daphne stumbled in a moment later, still hiccuping with laughter.
"I can't— oh Merlin— her teeth—"
Theo followed, wiping his eyes.
"I didn't think he'd actually say it."
"I did," Alden said evenly, setting a mortar in place. "He only ever speaks when it hurts."
Theo blinked, the grin fading slightly.
"That's bleak."
"That's honest."
Behind them, the last echoes of laughter faded. Hermione had fled. Ron and Harry were still shouting—words lost in echo, rage ricocheting uselessly off stone. Snape's response came in the soft, cutting tone that ended arguments like a blade sliding home.
"Fifty points from Gryffindor," Snape said, "and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it'll be a week's worth of detentions."
He entered the dungeon, robes flaring behind him, ignoring the glares that followed. Harry and Ron stalked in last, faces burning.
Snape began his lecture as if nothing had happened.
Alden's potion was already turning clear before anyone else's ingredients were properly measured. The mixture shimmered faintly, catching the dim torchlight like liquid glass.
"You always get it right," Theo muttered, shaking powdered moonstone into his own cauldron.
"Practice," Alden replied. "And quiet."
"You don't even care, do you?" Daphne asked softly, leaning against the table. "They're all whispering about you, worshipping you, or terrified of you — and you just…" she gestured at the cauldron, at the perfect stillness of his work. "Keep going."
He paused only for a breath, long enough to stir the potion three times counterclockwise.
"That's because they only see what's loud," he said finally. "And power doesn't need to be."
Daphne tilted her head, expression unreadable.
"That's the scariest thing you've said all week."
He didn't smile.
"Then it's probably true."
The scent of asphodel and burnt nettle hung thick in the dungeon. Harry's ears still rang — not from the noise, but from anger so sharp it felt metallic. Every motion, every breath, came out rough. He dropped his bag on the back table beside Ron, the slam echoing across the stone.
For half a second, he thought things might feel normal again. But Ron hesitated — his jaw worked, his hands flexed — and then he sat down beside Dean and Seamus instead.
The space beside Harry stayed empty.
Across the dungeon, Slytherins were all grinning. Draco turned in his seat, smirking, and pressed the badge on his chest.
POTTER STINKS flared bright green across the room.
The others followed — Crabbe, Theo, Pansy, the whole row — the message flashing over and over, pulsing like mock applause.
A few Hufflepuffs even snorted. The laughter rippled, sharp and cruel.
Harry stared at the words until his vision blurred. He wanted to hex them all. He wanted to throw something. He wanted—
Then he saw him.
Alden sat at the front table, surrounded by Slytherins but utterly apart from them. No badge on his chest. No smirk on his lips. His cauldron simmered quietly, silver smoke coiling upward. He was writing something — not even glancing at the scene behind him. The quill moved fast, confident, and clean.
Daphne whispered something to Theo, who grinned, glancing back toward Harry's end of the room. Alden didn't react. He simply adjusted the flame under his cauldron and turned a page in his notes.
For the first time, Harry couldn't tell what to think. Was Alden Dreyse ignoring him because he thought Harry wasn't worth noticing? Or because he didn't care about the noise either?
Either way, Harry suddenly hated that he couldn't tell the difference.
Snape's voice broke through the air.
"Antidotes," he said smoothly, eyes sweeping the class like knives. "All of you should have your preparations finished. You will now begin brewing. And then—"
His gaze settled on Harry.
"We shall test one."
Laughter flickered again. Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. He imagined upending his cauldron right over Snape's head. Boiling Draught of Peace, indeed.
Before the thought could root itself, there was a knock on the dungeon door. The laughter stuttered.
Colin Creevey's mop of hair appeared in the doorway, followed by his grin. He was clutching his camera like it was holy.
"Please, sir," he piped, "I'm supposed to take Harry Potter and Alden Dreyse upstairs."
The room went still.
Snape turned slowly, like a snake disturbed mid-coil.
"Potter," he said in a voice colder than potion glass, "has another hour of class to complete. And Mr. Dreyse is—" his eyes flicked toward the front, where Alden's potion glowed faint silver— "occupied."
Colin faltered.
"But, sir, Mr. Bagman wants them both. All the champions are to go. They're taking photographs—"
The word champions exploded like a dropped vial.
Harry felt every gaze shift toward him. And behind him, badges began flashing again — green, red, green — SUPPORT ALDEN DREYSE, POTTER STINKS.
Snape exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing.
"Very well," he said sharply. "Potter, leave your things. You'll return later to test your antidote."
Colin squeaked,
"He's got to take them, sir—all the champions—"
Snape's glare could have boiled mercury.
"Fine. Take your things, Potter—get out of my sight before I decide to test your antidote myself."
Laughter erupted again.
Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and stalked for the door. Every step through the Slytherin desks sent another POTTER STINKS flashing in his periphery. He tried not to look. He failed.
Then a quiet voice cut through the noise.
"Professor," Alden said evenly, closing his notebook, "I'll need to re-brew my draught when I return. It hasn't finished distilling."
Snape turned toward him — not irritated, but measured, as if the rest of the room had vanished.
"Very well," he said after a pause. "You may go. But when you return, you'll brew it from the beginning. No shortcuts."
"Understood, sir."
Alden packed his things in silence, ignoring the murmurs that followed. The badges blinked around him, but he didn't look at a single one. When he passed Draco, who half-rose to slap his shoulder, Alden only said, quietly,
"You should take that off before it curses you."
Draco blinked, grin faltering.
The corridor swallowed the two champions — Harry first, moving fast and angry, and Alden behind him, calm and composed, their footsteps echoing in opposite rhythms.
One fled noise. The other carried silence.
And for the first time, Harry realized that Slytherin's champion hadn't laughed once.