Winter had settled its hand over Hogwarts. The air in the Great Hall shimmered with frost that drifted down from the bewitched ceiling, snowflakes dissolving before they touched the long tables. The torches burned lower now, their light a dull gold swallowed by blue shadows. Even the enchanted banners hung heavier, weighed down by the cold.
Alden sat halfway down the Slytherin table, posture straight, eyes half-lidded. Around him, conversation wove in low, slithering threads — the kind that never quite reached him. Since the First Task, the school had learned to lower its voice when he entered a room.
"Still wearing the badges," Theo murmured beside him, reaching for toast. The silver emblem on his chest flashed briefly: Support Dreyse. It flickered, then shifted —Potter's Still Lucky.
Alden didn't look up. "You'd think they'd tire of repeating themselves."
Theo smirked. "You'd think you would at least pretend to enjoy the attention."
Across from them, Draco laughed under his breath, buttering his bread with precision.
"He's enjoying it," Draco said lightly. "Just in that terrifyingly silent way of his."
Daphne, farther down the table, raised a brow. "You mistake composure for pleasure, Malfoy."
Her tone was cool, but her gaze lingered a fraction too long on Alden — the quiet way he cut through the noise, the stillness that seemed to reshape the air around him.
From the far end of the hall came bursts of laughter from the Gryffindor table. Harry sat isolated at its center, Hermione close but quiet, Ron still at a separate end with Seamus and Dean. Every now and then, heads turned toward them — or toward Alden, who seemed to exist as the silent counterweight to all of it.
The Great Hall's mood had grown strange since November. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws shared hushed debates over breakfast about what he'd done to the Horntail — some claimed he'd frozen its blood, others that he'd bent space itself. A handful swore the fire had died when he looked at it.
Even now, students stole glances, as if he might shatter into smoke if stared at too long.
Alden lifted his teacup with deliberate calm. The steam rose in thin ribbons that twisted like ghosts before fading.
Theo leaned back, eyes on the enchanted ceiling where snow fell endlessly.
"You know what they're saying, right? That you killed it because you could. That you didn't even blink when you did."
"Rumor has always been easier than truth," Alden said softly, without looking up.
"And the truth?" Daphne asked, joining their end of the table, voice steady but edged with curiosity.
Alden finally turned to her.
"It was breathing fire at me," he said simply. "Would you have preferred I had asked it to stop?"
Theo chuckled. "Fair point."
Draco grinned. "The dragon should've known better."
The comment drew a few dark laughs from their end of the table, but Alden didn't react. He poured himself more tea, movements exact. Every gesture from him was deliberate — the opposite of spectacle.
A few seats away, Pansy Parkinson whispered loudly enough for nearby students to hear, "He doesn't even smile. I'd hex the smirk off Potter before I'd sit near that."
Daphne shot her a glare. "You'd faint if he ever did smile."
The table rippled with quiet amusement, but Alden only inclined his head slightly toward Daphne in acknowledgment — not thanks, just… understanding.
From the staff table, McGonagall's gaze lingered on the Slytherin section longer than usual. Flitwick was murmuring to Sprout, both wearing faint frowns; only Snape sat perfectly still, his black eyes unreadable behind the candlelight. Dumbledore looked older that morning, weary even, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he studied the snow falling above.
"Classes'll be murder today," Theo muttered. "Transfiguration after lunch. You think McGonagall's still nervous around you?"
Alden's lips curved faintly — not a smile, exactly, more like the echo of one.
"She's always been nervous around power she can't catalogue."
Daphne tilted her head. "And what should she catalogue you as, then?"
He looked at her — calm, distant, eyes the grey-green of melted ice.
"A student," he said finally. "Nothing more."
Theo snorted softly. "Yeah. Try telling that to everyone else."
The great doors at the far end groaned open; a gust of cold wind swept through, scattering snowflakes into the hall. The moment it passed, conversation resumed — slower, quieter, but still pulsing with curiosity.
Alden stood, drawing his cloak around his shoulders. The Slytherin crest caught the light, silver threads flaring like frost. As he moved toward the exit, the chatter dimmed almost unconsciously, a ripple of silence following him down the aisle between tables.
From the corner of her eye, Daphne watched him go. Theo leaned forward, murmuring, "You think he's really as calm as he looks?"
She hesitated, watching his silhouette framed in the open doorway — pale hair, straight shoulders, a lone figure stepping into the snowlight.
"No," she said at last. "I think he's trying to remember how to be."
The castle had grown quieter in winter, but not kinder.
Snow pressed against the high windows like a hand trying to get in, dimming the corridors to a permanent dusk. Candles flickered low on their sconces, throwing long amber bars of light across the flagstones as Alden walked. His footfalls were near soundless, his shadow bending with the rhythm of the torches.
He had grown used to the whispering — it followed him the way frost followed breath.
"That's him," someone murmured near the archway leading to Charms."The one who—""—made the dragon freeze before it died.""My cousin at the Ministry said Dumbledore had to petition for a silence order. Said they don't want anyone learning what spells he used."
Their voices dimmed when he passed, not out of respect, but because no one wanted to hear how their own gossip sounded in his presence.
Theo walked a half-step behind, his bag slung loosely over one shoulder, his usual grin subdued. Daphne kept pace for a few strides before veering off toward the library staircase. The further she moved away, the more obvious it became — Alden's silence wasn't simply composure anymore; it was absence. He seemed to move through Hogwarts like something half-forgotten by time, there but untouchable.
Theo sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"You ever going to do something about all this?"
Alden glanced sideways, eyes pale in the torchlight.
"About what?"
Theo gestured vaguely — at the students parting ahead of them, at the small gaps of space that opened wherever Alden went.
"That. The whole—" he exhaled. "You walk through the corridor, and everyone clears out like you're contagious. You've got the House wearing your name on their chests, and you still eat alone. You realize how insane that looks?"
Alden didn't stop walking. "Popularity isn't the same as belonging."
Theo frowned. "You say that like you've never wanted either."
A faint pause — barely a second, but long enough for the weight of it to settle.
"Maybe once," Alden said finally. "But not after I learned what people do with what they don't understand."
They passed a set of first-years, who fell silent mid-laugh. One of them, a Ravenclaw girl, clutched her books tighter and whispered something to her friend — the words carried just far enough.
"My brother says he's the next Grindelwald."
Theo froze for a heartbeat. His instinct was to snap, to correct her, but Alden's steady stride didn't falter. His head turned slightly, not in anger — more in observation, like he was cataloguing how the world classified him.
"You're not even going to say something?" Theo asked quietly.
"Would it matter?" Alden's tone was even. "Let them name me what they fear. It saves them the trouble of having to know me."
Theo huffed, a short, frustrated sound. "You talk like someone twice your age. You know that, right?"
"That's the problem with paying attention," Alden murmured. "It doesn't let you stay young."
They walked the next hall in silence. Portraits craned from their frames to watch as they passed. In one, an old witch whispered to another, and both vanished behind the edge of the canvas.
When they reached the junction that split toward the library and the dungeons, Theo slowed. "You coming down?"
Alden shook his head. "I've got notes to finish."
Theo nodded, hesitated. "You should talk to people more, you know. Daphne's right — you make it too easy for them to think you don't care."
Alden adjusted his satchel, gaze distant, almost reflective.
"It's easier for them if I don't."
Theo wanted to argue, but there was something final in the way Alden said it — not defensive, not broken, just resolved. Like a wall built so high that even sound wouldn't cross it.
"All right," Theo said finally, forcing a half-smile. "Just… try not to turn into a statue before the Yule Ball. House pride's already planning your outfit."
That earned the faintest trace of humor — a single breath that might have been a laugh if one listened closely.
"Then they'll be disappointed. I won't be there."
Theo's grin faded. He watched Alden's back as the boy turned and walked down the next corridor, his cloak whispering against the stone. The light swallowed him halfway down, until he was little more than a dark shape against the falling snowlight through the windows.
Theo stood there for a long moment, the silence of the castle pressing around him.It wasn't that Alden didn't fit at Hogwarts. It was that Hogwarts itself hadn't figured out how to contain him.
"You're more alone than you think, mate," Theo said softly to the empty air. "And I don't know if you even notice anymore."
A gust of cold wind threaded through the hall, scattering the candlelight. When it passed, the space where Alden had stood was already empty — as if the castle itself had learned to let him vanish without sound.
Transfiguration that day felt colder than usual — even for December. The enchanted windows had iced over from the inside, scattering the sunlight into fractured blue beams that cut across desks and parchment. The air smelled faintly of ink, frost, and the copper tang of polished brass instruments.
Alden sat near the front, posture immaculate, quill balanced between his fingers. He didn't fidget. Didn't whisper. Didn't even look up when the classroom filled with restless noise — the scrape of chairs, the quiet laughter of students brushing snow from their cloaks.
Behind him, Harry slumped into his seat, muttering something to Ron about fake wands and broken guinea pigs. McGonagall's sharp voice cut through before the thought could finish.
"Weasley! Potter! Will you please pay attention?"
The class went silent at once, the reprimand slicing through the noise like glass. At the front, Alden's quill didn't pause. He was already halfway through the day's notes — Cross-Species Transfiguration: Principles of Magical Compatibility — his handwriting narrow and deliberate.
Harry and Ron froze in the back, twin looks of guilt. The guinea fowl on Ron's desk was still half-feathered, staring mournfully into space.
McGonagall exhaled through her nose.
"Now that Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter have decided to act their age—"Her eyes flicked briefly to Alden at the front, who sat as though carved from composure."—we may proceed."
A faint chuckle rippled through the Slytherin half of the room. Daphne covered her smile with the back of her hand. Pansy didn't bother — her laughter came sharp and unkind, though it faltered when Alden turned a single, quiet glance over his shoulder. She stopped instantly.
Theo leaned back in his chair beside Alden, muttering under his breath,
"You terrify them, you know that?"
Alden replied without looking up.
"Then perhaps they'll listen better than Potter does."
Theo huffed, half amused, half uneasy.
McGonagall set her quill down, the gesture crisp.
"Now then," she began, "the Yule Ball is approaching — a long-standing Hogwarts tradition, and an opportunity to welcome our international guests with grace and dignity."
A murmur swept through the room — girls straightened, boys exchanged bewildered glances. Theo groaned softly, already predicting chaos.
McGonagall continued, tone like iron polished to civility.
"The Ball will be held on Christmas night in the Great Hall. Fourth-years and above may attend, though younger students may be invited by an upperclassman."
Lavender Brown giggled; Parvati elbowed her, both stealing glances toward Harry, who looked as though he'd rather duel another dragon.
Alden, however, sat perfectly still — pen poised, expression unreadable.
"Dress robes will be required," McGonagall went on, scanning the rows. "And the champions—"Her gaze fell on Alden first, then Harry — the room instinctively followed it —"—are expected to open the Ball with a traditional waltz alongside their chosen partners."
The reaction was immediate. Lavender and Parvati squealed under their breath. Pansy turned pink and shot a glance toward Alden, her hand already smoothing the front of her uniform. Even Daphne, though she tried to appear indifferent, went still for a heartbeat too long, her eyes flicking toward him before dropping back to her parchment.
Theo noticed. He looked from girl to girl, frowning slightly — not out of jealousy, but out of a quiet, knowing concern. Alden might have been pretending to ignore it, but the room's attention had already begun to orbit him again — whispering, wondering, wanting.
McGonagall's tone sliced through the undercurrent of whispers.
"This is not," she said sharply, "an excuse to abandon academic priorities for frivolity. I expect all of you to behave with maturity and respect. This event reflects not only your Houses, but Hogwarts itself."
Her eyes softened — briefly — as she looked at Alden and Harry once more.
"The champions, of course, will represent us most visibly. See that you both prepare accordingly."
Alden inclined his head — calm, deferential, practiced. Harry muttered something that might have been a groan.
The bell rang a moment later. Chairs scraped back, the air buzzing with sudden excitement. Students whispered as they packed up, half gossiping about dresses and partners, half sneaking glances at the two champions sitting worlds apart.
Pansy whispered something to Daphne about who Alden might ask. Daphne didn't answer, only pressed her lips together and snapped her book shut.
Theo, catching her expression, smirked faintly.
"You look like you're about to kill someone."
"I'm considering it," she muttered.
He laughed under his breath, but his eyes flicked toward Alden, who was calmly reorganizing his notes, seemingly unaware of the social storm he'd just stirred.
McGonagall called over the clamor, "Potter — Dreyse — a word, if you please."
Alden looked up at once, already standing before the rest of the class had cleared out. His movements were precise, unhurried — like ritual. Harry lagged behind, dread written plainly across his face.
Theo lingered at the door for a heartbeat, watching the scene — McGonagall's stern expression, Harry's nervous shifting, Alden's calm stillness. Then he shook his head, muttering,
"You're walking through fire, mate, and you don't even feel the heat."
He slipped out, the door closing behind him, leaving Alden once again where he always seemed to end up — at the center of attention, yet utterly alone in it.
The classroom emptied like water draining from a basin — chatter fading, chairs clattering, the smell of ink and transfigured feathers lingering behind. When the door shut, the silence was heavier than it should've been.
McGonagall stood by her desk, hands clasped behind her back, her tartan robes folded like armor. She looked between Harry and Alden — two champions, both far too young for what the world had already demanded of them.
"Well," she said crisply, "I assume you both understand what's expected regarding the Yule Ball."
Harry nodded mutely, eyes fixed on the floor. Alden didn't move.
When neither spoke, she sighed, her voice softening just a fraction.
"This is not merely a social event. It's a diplomatic tradition — Hogwarts hosting the two great schools of Europe. It is important that you present yourselves properly. The champions and their partners will open the dance. You will be seen, gentlemen — by students, by officials, and by the press."
Harry's ears turned red at the dance. Alden's gaze remained steady, unmoved.
McGonagall straightened her glasses.
"Any questions, comments, or… concerns?"
The words hovered like a test. Harry looked like he wanted to vanish under his desk. Alden, after a pause, said evenly,
"I'm not interested."
McGonagall blinked, taken aback. "Pardon?"
"In attending," Alden said. His tone wasn't defiant — merely factual, like he was declining an unnecessary appointment. "It's… not my sort of thing."
Harry's head snapped up, startled that someone had said aloud what he'd only thought.
McGonagall drew herself up, spine straightening like a drawn bow.
"Mr. Dreyse, this isn't optional. The champions must attend — and open the ball. You are representing Hogwarts."
"I'm aware," he replied, eyes on the desk. "But I doubt anyone would care to be seen beside me."
The words landed differently than Harry expected. There was no bitterness in them, no self-pity — only quiet realism.
McGonagall hesitated. "I beg your pardon?"
Alden finally looked up. The winter light through the frosted windows caught in his grey-green eyes, making them look pale, spectral.
"Surely you've heard the rumors, Professor," he said softly. "About what I am. Or what they think I am."
Her brows knit together. "I don't indulge in corridor gossip, Mr. Dreyse."
"Then you're one of the few," he said. "The rest of them — students, even some staff — they whisper things when I pass. About dragons. About Grindelwald. About dark spells that aren't meant to exist. No sane girl would choose to stand beside that in a ballroom."
The quiet that followed was long and thin as wire.
Harry stared at him — not out of judgment, but surprise. He'd never heard Alden speak so openly, so detached from the legend everyone had built around him.
McGonagall's lips tightened, though her eyes softened in something near pity.
"Mr. Dreyse," she said finally, "Hogwarts does not define its students by rumors. You are required to attend. As for your partner…"She paused, then added, "Speak with Professor Snape. Perhaps he can… assist in arranging something suitable."
Her tone carried the faintest note of unease, as if even she wasn't sure what suitable meant for Alden Dreyse.
Alden inclined his head. "Understood."
Harry, finding his voice, muttered, "You'd rather not go either?"
Alden looked at him — not coldly, just distant.
"There's a difference between wanting to avoid attention," he said, "and being the reason a room falls silent."
Harry had no answer to that. He only nodded faintly, the meaning heavy between them.
McGonagall clapped her hands once, briskly. "That will do. Both of you are dismissed. And I expect to see you presentable on Christmas night — both of you."
They gathered their things in silence. Harry left first, rubbing the back of his neck, already dreading the next few weeks.
Alden lingered just a heartbeat longer, the light from the window cutting a pale line across his face.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'll speak to Snape. But I suspect the world is far more comfortable when it can label something than when it has to understand it."
McGonagall didn't respond. She only watched him go — her expression uncertain for once — as the door closed softly behind him.
Snape's office smelled like burnt sage, old parchment, and the faint metallic tang of ingredients that had outlived the students who once mislabeled them. The walls were lined with glass jars — things that twitched faintly in suspended preservation — and the air carried that same perpetual coolness as the dungeons above a river's vein.
Alden stood near the desk, hands folded neatly behind his back. The silence was absolute, save for the soft hiss of the fire and the faint scratch of Snape's quill.
The man didn't look up for nearly a full minute. When he finally did, his dark eyes gleamed with that habitual calculation — the look of someone who measured not what people said, but why they bothered to say anything at all.
"McGonagall sent you," Snape said at last. It wasn't a question.
"She said you could… assist me," Alden replied.
Snape's eyebrow twitched upward. "Assist you." His tone lingered somewhere between disbelief and dark amusement. "In what capacity, precisely? You're not failing academically. Nor, to my knowledge, has anyone discovered your… extracurricular experimentation."
Alden hesitated. "The Yule Ball."
There was a long pause. A cauldron somewhere in the back let out a slow pop.
Snape blinked once. "...You're joking."
"I wish I were," Alden said, deadpan.
Snape set his quill down with surgical care. "So the prodigy of Slytherin House — breaker of age wards, silencer of dragons, wielder of spells that frighten half the faculty — has been sent to me... for advice on dancing?"
Alden frowned faintly. "Not dancing. Partners."
Snape leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. For a long moment, the only sound was the crack of the fire. Then, very quietly, he said, "Merlin help us both."
Alden exhaled through his nose — it might've been a laugh, but just barely. "I tried to explain that no one would say yes. McGonagall didn't seem to believe me."
"She still clings to the delusion," Snape said, "that reputation can be corrected through polite social exposure. A charming dinner, a waltz, a headline in The Prophet."He gestured dismissively. "People like us are... not built for such distractions."
"People like us?" Alden echoed, his tone curious.
Snape's expression darkened, though not unkindly. "Prodigies are tolerable until they outgrow comfort. Then they are frightening. Misunderstood. And the frightened are never charitable, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden tilted his head slightly, his voice low. "You're speaking from experience."
Snape gave a thin smile — humorless, precise. "Experience is a generous word for it."He reached for his teacup, realized it was empty, and didn't bother refilling it. "The woman I loved once decided that my pursuits — my affiliations — rendered me beneath her notice. I learned, somewhat violently, that brilliance does not make one lovable."
Alden was silent for a long moment. The firelight flickered across the thin scar along his jaw — a remnant from his earlier experiments.
"So your advice," he said slowly, "is to accept solitude?"
"My advice," Snape replied, "is to stop expecting understanding from those who cannot comprehend what drives you. Women, Mr. Dreyse, are rarely impressed by the philosophical justification of moral ambiguity."
That earned an actual breath of laughter from Alden — quiet, low, genuine. "I can't imagine why."
Snape's mouth twitched — something dangerously close to a smirk. "Quite. They prefer men who smile and stammer. You, unfortunately, have mastered neither art."
"And you?" Alden asked, the faintest trace of mirth in his voice.
Snape looked at him — one corner of his lip curving downward. "I've mastered silence, which is often the only mercy I can offer."
The fire crackled again. The two of them sat in the dim light — teacher and student, both more comfortable dissecting the structure of a spell than the anatomy of affection.
After a while, Snape said, "McGonagall expects you to attend. You must choose someone, even if only for appearances."
Alden nodded slightly. "I'll manage."
"If you require further instruction," Snape said dryly, "I can provide a syllabus on The Fundamentals of Social Discomfort. Consider it an elective."
"Will it count toward my O.W.L.s?" Alden asked without missing a beat.
Snape gave him a long look, then — impossibly — a faint, fleeting smile. "Out."
Alden inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, Professor."
As he reached the door, Snape's voice cut through the air again, softer this time.
"Mr. Dreyse."
Alden turned slightly.
"For what it's worth," Snape said, eyes fixed on the fire, "they whisper because they envy what they fear. That does not make you monstrous."
Alden's reply was quiet — almost lost in the low hum of the flames.
"Sometimes, Professor, it's easier if it does."
He left. The door shut behind him, sealing the room in shadow once more.
Snape sat for a long time after, staring into the fire, his reflection bending with the light — two men divided by years but carved of the same obsidian restraint. When he finally spoke, it was to the silence itself.
"Merlin save her," he muttered. "Whichever girl he chooses."
The Great Hall had never been this loud after hours.
Candles hung low tonight — clusters of silver light trembling above tables that had been cleared of food and replaced with scrolls, ink bottles, and a hastily enchanted ballot chest glowing faintly at the far end. The Yule Ball selection board, Draco Malfoy's latest act of self-declared public service.
He stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, an expression of theatrical exhaustion on his face.
"One at a time!" Draco called, waving his quill like a conductor's baton. "Honestly, I didn't expect this many. You're all desperate, aren't you?"
His smirk drew laughter from the small crowd of Slytherins who'd gathered — third years to seventh, all angling for one thing: a chance to be the girl who went with Alden Dreyse.
Even a handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs lingered near the back, pretending they'd come for the "open invitation" Draco had generously posted near the main stairwell. A few Gryffindors, bold or foolish, stood with arms crossed, glaring back at the snide comments.
Theo leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, watching the spectacle unfold with the bemused detachment of someone who refused to take part in nonsense but also refused to miss the show.
"He's actually organizing applications," Theo said, half-laughing under his breath. "Is there a question section too? Favorite color? Bloodline? Political allegiance?"
Beside him, Daphne crossed one leg over the other, calm and disinterested — at least in posture. The candlelight made her blonde hair gleam like silvered wheat, her expression composed in that cool Greengrass way that bordered on regal boredom.
"It's beneath him," she said finally.
Theo arched an eyebrow. "Draco?"
"Alden." Her tone didn't shift, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the table. "He doesn't need this parade of ambition and perfume."
Theo snorted. "You say that like he's here."
"Exactly," she replied. "He isn't."
The crowd thickened around Draco's table — the enchanted parchment floating beside him already covered with names written in elegant loops or messy scrawls. Pansy leaned over his shoulder, whispering suggestions far too close to his ear. A tall Ravenclaw sixth-year with auburn curls stepped forward, voice lilting with false humility.
"I just think it would be such an honor," she said sweetly. "To stand beside someone of his… stature."
Theo muttered, "You mean reputation."
Daphne's gaze didn't move. "They all do."
Draco scribbled something down, nodding grandly.
"All right, next! Try not to trip on your self-importance as you walk up — we're not hiring an entourage, just a partner."
A ripple of laughter followed, but Theo caught the subtle tightness around Draco's grin — the way his eyes flickered, just once, toward the entrance.
"He knows Alden won't ask anyone himself," Theo murmured. "He's trying to save face for himself."
"He thinks pity helps," Daphne said quietly. "It doesn't."
Theo turned to her, smirking faintly. "And you? You think you're above it, or just afraid to write your name down like the rest?"
Her eyes cut to him, sharp enough to nick pride. "I don't beg for attention."
Theo tilted his head. "No, but you notice when it walks past you and doesn't stop."
That earned him silence — not cold, but careful. Daphne's expression didn't shift, yet something behind her eyes changed — a flicker of truth, quick as a wand spark.
"He doesn't see any of this," she said at last. "Not the whispers, not the looks. He just keeps walking. Like he's already somewhere else in his head. And everyone keeps saying he's dark, dangerous, cursed — but they don't see the boy who stays after class to clean cauldrons he didn't use, or the one who still thanks the elves when they serve tea."
Theo blinked, caught off guard by the softness in her tone.
"That's oddly specific," he said. "Almost like you've been watching him."
"Someone has to," she murmured.
Draco's voice rang across the hall again, interrupting.
"Merlin, this is tragic! I've had fewer applications for Quidditch tryouts! Is no one here worthy of Alden Dreyse?"
The girls laughed, though it was tinged with nerves.
Theo leaned closer, voice low.
"You know, if you don't step in, someone will. And not one of them will see him the way you do."
Daphne exhaled slowly, watching as another name floated onto the parchment — a Hufflepuff girl she didn't know, giggling behind her friends.
"He doesn't need to be seen," she said. "He needs to be understood. And no one here wants to understand him — they want to own him."
Theo studied her in silence, the noise of the hall dimming around them. Then, softly — almost playfully — he said, "So you won't enter your name."
"No."
"But you'll be angry if someone else wins."
That made her look at him, really look — eyes narrowed, a faint blush fighting its way into her usual composure.
"You're insufferable."
Theo grinned. "That's not a denial."
Before she could answer, the doors to the Great Hall opened — a cold draft sweeping in from the corridor. Heads turned instinctively.
Alden wasn't there. But for a moment, in the hush that followed, Daphne almost imagined he might walk through that door — the way his presence always quieted a room, the way even the air seemed to wait for him to speak.
Instead, it was only a pair of younger students delivering notes from Professor Snape.
Draco sighed theatrically. "Fine! Applications will close tomorrow night. If Alden doesn't pick by then, I'll personally curate the options."
Theo smirked. "And what will you do if he ignores them all?"
Draco's grin faltered just a bit. "Then I'll be forced to assume he's as hopeless as the rest of you."
The crowd laughed.
Daphne didn't. She turned away, the reflection of candlelight flickering across her pale green eyes — thoughtful, maybe a little melancholy.
"He's not hopeless," she said quietly, almost to herself. "He's just… alone. And maybe he doesn't know how not to be."
Theo didn't tease her this time. He just watched her expression soften — the faintest shadow of concern breaking through her usual pride.
Outside, snow began to fall against the enchanted windows, the flakes tracing pale shapes against the glass. The laughter faded, replaced by the muted hum of voices and the sound of quills scratching more names into the list.
In the middle of it all, one empty space remained beside Alden's name — untouched, waiting.
And Daphne Greengrass pretended not to stare at it.
By the time Alden returned, the dungeons had fallen into that strange winter stillness — where every torch burned low, and even the castle itself seemed to exhale.
The Slytherin common room was dim but not empty. Embers glowed in the grate, throwing slow amber light over scattered parchment, half-eaten sweets, and a few discarded quills. The great lake pressed darkly against the windows, its shadowed current rippling with ghostly light.
And in the middle of the chaos — like a criminal caught red-handed — stood Draco Malfoy.
He froze mid-sentence, a stack of parchment in one hand, quill in the other, and Theo sitting across from him wearing an expression that said I warned you this was idiotic.
Alden stopped just inside the entrance. He didn't speak, didn't even blink. His pale eyes flicked over the scene — the list on the table, the faint glitter of wax-sealed letters, the unmistakable chaos of other people trying to organize his life.
Draco cleared his throat. "Alden. Good evening. You're, uh—back early."
"I wasn't aware I'd gone anywhere worth timing," Alden said calmly, stepping forward. His voice, low and even, carried through the chamber like a dropped coin. "What exactly is this?"
Theo snorted. "That's the part where he pretends it's not what it obviously is."
Draco shot him a glare before looking back at Alden.
"Right. So—listen—it's not what it looks like."
Alden stopped in front of the table, glancing down. "It looks like a list."
"Well, yes. Technically. But—hear me out—it's not just a list." Draco gestured helplessly. "It's... more of a—an initiative."
"An initiative," Alden repeated, tone unreadable. "For what?"
Draco's shoulders sank. "For you."
Theo muttered under his breath, "And this is the part where he dies."
Draco pressed on, words tumbling faster, desperation mounting.
"Look, I just thought—after everything, you know, with the rumors and the tournament and—Merlin's sake, Alden, you don't exactly make yourself approachable. I thought I'd—help. That's all."
Alden's silence was more effective than shouting. He just looked at Draco. Not angry — that would've been easier. Just silent.
Draco began pacing, the way he always did when he was nervous and trying to hide it behind arrogance.
"I mean, the Yule Ball! It's supposed to be this—this grand event! A chance to represent Slytherin with pride, with—presentation! I couldn't just let Hogwarts' champion show up alone like some—some—"
"Specter?" Alden offered quietly.
Draco winced. "Exactly. I mean—no! Not exactly."
Theo folded his arms, smirking. "He's trying to say he didn't want the rest of the school thinking you were cursed, heartless, or emotionally unavailable."
"I didn't say that!" Draco snapped. "I said alone! There's a difference!"
Alden tilted his head slightly, as if considering the statement. The corners of his mouth twitched — not a smile, but something close to it.
"So your solution," he said slowly, "was to… interview potential candidates?"
Draco hesitated. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"It is ridiculous," Theo said cheerfully.
"Oh, shut up, Nott!"
Alden rested a hand on the parchment stack. "You realize this is absurd."
Draco sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes. Entirely. But in my defense, everyone wanted to sign up. Half the Great Hall practically lined up for you."
Alden raised an eyebrow. "Half the Great Hall."
"Including Ravenclaws," Theo added helpfully. "And a Hufflepuff who said she wanted to see if you really 'glow in the dark.'"
Draco groaned. "I told you not to repeat that!"
Alden looked between them — the exasperation in Draco's posture, Theo's amusement, the faint buzz of candlelight flickering over the scene — and exhaled quietly.
"You went through all this," he said, "because you thought I couldn't manage one evening of decorum?"
"Not couldn't," Draco corrected quickly. "Wouldn't. There's a difference. You'd rather read in a corner than deal with—" he waved his hands vaguely "—human interaction."
Theo grinned. "He's not wrong."
Alden's gaze lingered on Draco for a moment longer, then softened by a fraction. "You meant well," he said simply.
Draco blinked. "So... you're not angry?"
"Anger requires surprise," Alden said dryly. "You, organizing chaos for appearances? Entirely predictable."
Theo laughed. "You've been told."
Draco looked between them, part relieved, part sheepish.
"I suppose that means I can burn the list?"
"Not before I read it," Alden said.
Draco froze. "That's… unnecessary."
"You put my name on it," Alden said mildly. "I think it's only fair I know who volunteered to ruin their reputation."
Theo was practically choking on laughter by now. "You're really going to make him read the names?"
"Consider it his penance."
Draco groaned, sinking into a chair. "Merlin, why are all my friends sociopaths?"
"Because only sociopaths tolerate you," Theo shot back.
The three of them stayed there for a while — the fire crackling, the lake's green light drifting through the glass, and laughter breaking through the usual dungeon gloom.
For a moment, it almost felt normal — like they were just students again, not champions or rumors or heirs to anything heavier than mischief.
As the clock chimed midnight, Alden finally said,
"Burn the list, Draco. Before someone sees it and thinks it was my idea."
Draco nodded, grateful. He flicked his wand, and the parchment curled into ash, the names vanishing into smoke.
Theo stretched. "Well, that's one way to handle romance."
Alden turned toward the dormitory stairs, voice steady, faintly amused.
"If the Ministry handled problems as efficiently as Slytherin gossip, we'd have peace by next week."
Theo laughed; Draco groaned into his hands.
The fire crackled lower, the ash from the parchment drifting upward like faint gray snow — and for the first time in weeks, Alden allowed himself a quiet, rare thing: a small, genuine smile.
The dungeon corridors were quiet this late, the kind of quiet that hummed with the pulse of cold stone. Down one of them, where torchlight didn't quite reach, Daphne Greengrass stood at the corner near the Slytherin common room entrance — back to the wall, listening.
She hadn't meant to. Not at first. She'd come looking for Theo to return his Charms notes, but when she'd heard the low rumble of voices and the occasional snort of laughter, curiosity had done what pride would never admit.
Now, the sound of them — Alden, Theo, and Draco — drifted toward her through the half-open door.
Draco's voice carried first, flustered and defensive:
"I'm telling you, it was organized chaos! Not—well—chaos chaos."
Then Theo's amused drawl:
"You collected applications, Malfoy. That's not helping a friend. That's founding a ministry department."
A faint sound of paper shifting — Alden's tone, calm and dry as ever.
"You realize this is absurd."
That voice — composed, restrained, perfectly balanced between intellect and indifference — made something in Daphne's chest ease. He didn't sound angry. Just… weary. Like someone forever tolerating the noise of a world he stood slightly apart from.
"Not couldn't, would wouldn't," Draco was saying. "There's a difference! You'd rather sit alone with a book than—than deal with any of this!"
A pause. Then Alden again — the faintest curl of wit threading through the stillness.
"You mean social interaction."
Theo's laugh echoed softly. "He's not wrong."
Daphne found herself smiling — quietly, involuntarily. It was strange, hearing them like this. Normal. No rumors, no whispers of darkness or danger. Just three boys being… boys.
Then Draco's voice again, lower now, anxious:
"I suppose that means I can burn the list?"
"Not before I read it."
There was the unmistakable sound of panic.
"That's… unnecessary."
"You put my name on it," Alden said mildly. "I think it's only fair I know who volunteered to ruin their reputation."
Theo's laughter filled the space again, bright against the cold stone. "You're really going to make him read them? Merlin, this is gold."
Alden began reading. Daphne leaned closer without meaning to, the chill of the wall seeping through her uniform sleeve.
"Pansy Parkinson.""Pass.""Millicent Bulstrode."A brief pause. "Absolutely not."
Theo nearly choked from laughing. Draco sputtered, "You could at least pretend to consider them!"
Alden continued, tone flat as parchment.
"Hannah Abbott.""No.""Cho Chang.""Beautiful, but no."
Theo's grin was audible. "A bit quick on that one."
"She stares too long," Alden replied simply.
Daphne's lips twitched despite herself. The faintest, guilty warmth spread through her chest — that irrational sense of relief she hated admitting even to herself.
Then came:
"Luna Lovegood."A beat of silence."Was that a dare?"
Draco groaned audibly. "I told her not to!"
Alden didn't laugh — but the air shifted with something amused beneath his restraint.
"It's a creative selection. I'll give her that."
Theo's laughter finally died down, replaced by that quieter tone he used only when Alden wasn't looking.
"And if you had to pick one?"
Daphne held her breath. The moment stretched.
Alden's reply was thoughtful, measured.
"Someone quiet. Not foolish. Someone who doesn't mistake proximity for privilege."
Theo's voice softened. "That rules out about ninety-eight percent of Hogwarts."
"Then I'll save myself the trouble," Alden said, his tone light but edged with truth. "Burn the list, Draco."
There was a pause — the sound of a wand flicking, parchment crackling into flame.
Draco exhaled, relieved. "You're sure?"
"Before someone sees it and thinks it was my idea."
Theo snorted. "He's got you there."
Their laughter rolled through the room — warm, low, unguarded. The kind of laughter people only shared when they felt safe enough to forget who they were supposed to be.
Daphne pressed her back to the stone, eyes closing for just a moment. The faint smile that had begun at his words lingered now, gentler, unguarded. Relief settled in her ribs — not because he'd dismissed others, but because he hadn't needed any of them. Because the Alden she saw — quiet, watchful, so rarely understood — was still entirely himself, untouched by rumor or pretense.
Through the door, she heard Draco groaning again:
"Merlin, why are all my friends sociopaths?"
"Because only sociopaths tolerate you," Theo replied.
Even Alden's laughter was audible this time — a rare, brief sound, like glass catching sunlight.
Daphne stepped away from the corner, letting the shadows reclaim her. She didn't need to hear more.
As she walked down the corridor, the lake's dim light rippled against the floor, and for the first time in weeks, the whispers about Alden Dreyse — the dark boy, the cold heir, the next Grindelwald — felt paper-thin, laughable even.
Because she'd just heard the truth for herself — not in what he'd said, but in what he hadn't.
He wasn't searching for adoration or power. He was just… surviving. Quietly. Elegantly. Alone.
And somewhere deep inside, Daphne realized with a faint, reluctant ache — she didn't want him to be.