Snow had swallowed the grounds of Hogwarts whole. By mid-December, the castle breathed white air from its windows, smoke rising from every chimney, laughter and stress mingling in the corridors like the ghosts of two opposing spirits.
Final lessons carried an odd, feverish energy. Professor McGonagall's classroom — normally crisp with the rhythm of Transfiguration — had turned into a rehearsal hall. Desks vanished, gramophones appeared, and McGonagall herself had become a general of posture and precision. Every afternoon, her voice thundered down the corridors:
"Left foot, Mr. Finnigan! You are not storming a battlefield—this is a waltz!"
Rumor had it that she'd made even the Fat Friar demonstrate a turn once, to "inspire coordination."
The Great Hall itself had become a stage of impatience and perfume. Everywhere one looked, students whispered about fabrics and partners, about shoes charmed not to squeak and dresses enchanted to shimmer. Even Hagrid's beard had been combed.
Only one class in the castle refused to yield to the season's madness.
The air in Snape's dungeon remained cold, dry, and utterly indifferent to celebration. No mistletoe. No music. No mercy.
Rows of cauldrons bubbled faintly, hissing against the stone as though the ingredients themselves disapproved of joy. Students worked in tense silence, their breath fogging faintly in the chill.
Snape moved between rows like a shadow, testing the patience of light. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate — like poison diluted in honey.
"And for those of you under the illusion that the Yule Ball excuses intellectual decay, allow me to assure you: it does not. I expect your antidotes to be precise enough to save your life, not decorative."
A handful of Gryffindors winced. Draco smirked. Alden kept writing.
He worked without a word, his motions clean and rhythmic — measuring, stirring, recording. The silver light from his cauldron reflected faintly in his eyes, making them look like glass beneath his lashes.
Theo, beside him, leaned close.
"You realize you're the only one actually enjoying this."
Alden didn't look up. "Enjoyment's irrelevant. It's just… correct."
Draco snorted softly. "That's not a normal sentence, you know."
"Normal," Alden replied, still stirring, "is a word for the unmotivated."
When the bell finally rang, Snape raised a hand.
"Dreyse. Malfoy. Nott. Stay."
The room froze for a moment, students exchanging uneasy glances. Even among Slytherins, being singled out by Snape wasn't exactly cause for comfort.
When the last footsteps faded, Snape turned, folding his hands behind his back. His expression gave nothing away — but the faint arch of his brow suggested curiosity.
"I assume you three are aware," he began slowly, "that the Yule Ball is in a few nights."
Draco groaned before he could stop himself.
"Sir, if this is about the lesson yesterday—"
"It isn't," Snape cut in. "Though if your dancing resembles your brewing technique, Miss Parkinson has my condolences."
Theo stifled a laugh. Draco's ears went red.
Snape's gaze slid to Alden, sharp as a blade's edge.
"And you, Mr. Dreyse. I trust you've resolved your… philosophical aversion to attending."
Alden met his eyes, tone polite but unyielding.
"I've been… researching alternative solutions, sir."
"Alternative?" Snape echoed, suspicion soft as silk.
Alden set down his quill. "Yes. I've been studying into potion theory again. There might be a way to induce temporary fever symptoms that Madam Pomfrey's tonics can't immediately counteract."
Theo exhaled a laugh. Draco looked somewhere between impressed and horrified.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You're attempting to out-brew the Hogwarts matron to avoid a dance."
"Not attempting," Alden said mildly. "Experimenting."
The corner of Snape's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more the shadow of one.
"You've been spending too much time in my company."
"I consider that a compliment," Alden replied.
"It isn't," Snape said curtly, though his voice held an odd note of amusement.
Theo raised an eyebrow. "So… we're really talking about you faking sickness instead of, you know, just going?"
"It's an efficient solution," Alden said simply.
"Efficient," Draco repeated, shaking his head. "It's a dance, not a duel."
"To you, perhaps," Alden murmured. "To me, both involve unnecessary contact."
Theo nearly doubled over laughing, earning a sharp glare from Snape.
"Enough," Snape said. "If you're determined to act like rational beings, you'll remember that the rest of the staff already knows of your plan, Dreyse. And no, Pomfrey won't fall for it. She's prepared half the hospital wing for students attempting similar escape routes."
Alden's brow furrowed faintly. "You told her?"
Snape's expression didn't change. "She asked. It seems even in the medical community, your reputation precedes you."
Draco grinned. "You've got your own file, mate."
"It's more organized than most of yours," Alden replied dryly.
For a heartbeat, Snape almost looked proud — though he masked it quickly beneath his usual disdain.
"You will attend, Dreyse," Snape said finally, his tone a measured finality. "You will dance, you will survive it, and you will remember that grace under duress is the mark of a true Slytherin."
"Understood, sir."
"Good."
Snape turned, dismissing them with a faint wave of his hand.
"Now get out before I'm forced to grade your wit instead of your potions. And if I hear so much as a whisper about you spiking the punch bowl, I'll know where to look."
Draco smirked. Theo raised his hand solemnly.
"Purely academic curiosity, sir."
"Detention, if curiosity becomes contagious."
They filed out of the room, the echo of Snape's voice fading into the cool dungeon air.
By the next day, it was all anyone could talk about. McGonagall had officially declared the afternoon Transfiguration sessions cancelled — replaced with her "emergency ballroom workshops," which every boy in Hogwarts attended under duress.
Music drifted faintly through the halls: an old waltz rising and falling under shouts of "Left foot, Longbottom!" and "Mr. Weasley, that is not your partner's hand!"
Slytherins, of course, did not attend. Their own champion sat quietly in the library instead — quill moving in silence, eyes steady, the frost outside catching silver in his hair.
If he was worried about the dance, he didn't show it. But deep down, even Theo knew — for Alden Dreyse, this would be the first challenge he couldn't face with a spell, or a theory, or a carefully controlled silence.
It would require something he'd never had to use before.
The library was full in the way only winter could make it — warmth pressed against silence, candlelight spilling over parchment, the faint crack of quills echoing like rain. Every table was occupied, but most were filled with whispers rather than study.
Every conversation circled the same topic: the Yule Ball. Who was asking whom? Who had been turned down? Which Beauxbatons girl had hexed a Hufflepuff for implying she snored?
Theo Nott sat at one of the corner tables, chin propped on his hand, watching Alden write. Across from him, Alden's quill moved like clockwork — efficient, tireless, unhurried. His books were stacked in perfect order, a small fortress of dark green covers and aged spines.
Theo let the silence hang for a while, then sighed.
"You know," he said, "it's getting suspicious."
Alden didn't look up. "What is?"
"You," Theo replied, voice low but teasing. "You've got half of Hogwarts trying to throw themselves at you, and you haven't looked at a single one. Not even out of politeness. You're acting like they're ghosts."
Alden's quill stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flicked up, pale in the lamplight.
"Ghosts are quieter."
Theo blinked. "You're impossible."
A faint smile ghosted across Alden's mouth — not amusement, exactly, but recognition. Then, with a flick of his wand, he drew a small circle in the air.
The world went soundless.
The candle flames dimmed, and the hum of parchment and murmurs dulled to nothing. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to muffle itself.
"Silentium Velo," Alden murmured.
Theo looked around, impressed despite himself. "That's… unsettling. No one can hear us?"
"No one," Alden said simply. "Now, you can speak freely."
Theo leaned forward, lowering his voice instinctively anyway. "How many of those do you even know, Alden? Spells like that?"
Alden hesitated, then said, "Enough that people would be uncomfortable being in the same room if they knew the number."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "And how many of those are dark?"
Alden didn't blink. "Don't worry about it."
Theo exhaled through his nose, a small half-laugh. "That's what you said before the first task. You said that before you nearly froze an entire arena."
"And it worked," Alden said.
"Yeah, but you didn't answer my question."
Alden glanced down at his notes, voice calm, even detached. "Because the question doesn't matter."
Theo leaned back. "Fine. Then answer this one — what is your problem with the dance? You've got girls from three schools practically auditioning to stand next to you, and you're pretending it doesn't exist."
The question lingered. Alden set his quill down.
"Because it doesn't interest me."
Theo frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters."
Alden folded his hands over the open page before him, eyes flickering toward the frosted windows. "I didn't enter the tournament to be admired. I entered to prove something — that there's no difference between light and dark magic. It's all the same force, divided by fear and names. But instead, all it did was prove everyone's point for them. They see me as proof of the darkness they've been taught to fear."
Theo's expression softened, but he stayed quiet.
Alden's tone didn't change — still measured, calm, but something sharper edged through the control.
"Every look, every whisper in the hall, it's not about me. It's about the idea of me. A myth they've built out of rumor and fear. Not one person looks and sees Alden Dreyse. They see a story they've already decided how to end."
He paused, studying his reflection faintly mirrored in the table's polished surface.
"I read something, once," he said quietly. "One of the old family journals. It said: 'Power only brings isolation. It draws eyes, not hearts. Everyone wants to stand near it, until they realize it burns.'"
Theo's brow furrowed.
"That's why you're not asking anyone?"
Alden nodded. "Because none of them see me. They see power, rumor, mystery — things to be admired or used. But not me."
Theo looked at him for a long moment, studying the stillness in his face. "That's… bleak."
"It's true," Alden said. "And truth doesn't ask for comfort."
The silence inside the spell pressed closer, the candlelight trembling faintly.
Finally, Theo tilted his head.
"What about Daphne?"
Alden's quill paused again — just for a heartbeat — before he spoke.
"What about her?"
Theo didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Alden flicked his wand; the sound barrier dissolved with a soft, sighing rush. The library came roaring back — quills scratching, voices whispering, laughter bubbling somewhere near the fireplace.
Alden picked up his quill, the faintest flicker of thought still in his eyes.
"We should finish before Madam Pince decides silence isn't enough punishment."
Theo didn't push further. He just watched Alden write again — precise, controlled, untouchable — and wondered if anyone in the castle besides him and Daphne saw the human shape beneath the myth.
The corridors of Hogwarts had taken on a strange kind of glow in December— lanternlight blooming soft and golden against the frost that feathered the windows. Garlands of evergreen trailed along the walls, candles floated above the staircases, and the faint hum of a distant waltz spilled through the stones whenever the Great Hall doors opened.
But under all that warmth, admiration crackled like static.
Alden Dreyse walked through it as though none of it touched him. Theo kept pace beside him, hands in his pockets, watching how heads turned as they passed— a ripple of silence following wherever Alden went.
Students parted unconsciously, conversations pausing for a beat too long. Even laughter seemed to dull, as if the air were waiting to see whether Alden would acknowledge it. He never did.
His stride was quiet, deliberate, his expression unreadable. The torchlight slid through his silver-white hair and caught in his grey-green eyes, turning them almost metallic. He looked carved from something colder than the rest of them— not cruel, just apart.
A pair of fourth-year Ravenclaw girls were whispering by the window as the two approached. One of them straightened, clutching her books, and forced a smile.
"Alden! You—uh—you were incredible in the first task," she stammered, stepping forward. "We were all saying—"
He looked at her, and the rest of the words evaporated. His eyes weren't unkind, but there was something behind them that unstrung every syllable before it could leave her mouth. A silence bloomed— not awkward, but vast.
He inclined his head once, courteous, and kept walking. The girl froze, color draining from her face. Her friend pulled her back gently, whispering, "Told you he's different."
Theo exhaled through his nose. "You know," he said quietly, "before this year, I thought you exaggerated. About what it's like."
Alden glanced sideways. "About what?"
Theo gestured vaguely behind them, where the whispers were already starting up again. That one look, that hair, he didn't even smile— rumors feeding on admiration and fear like kindling on fire.
"That," Theo said simply. "It's one thing to hear it. It's another to walk through it with you."
Alden's voice was calm, detached. "People mistake silence for superiority. It unnerves them."
"No," Theo said, shaking his head. "They mistake it for power. And maybe they're not wrong."
They turned down another corridor. A group of Beauxbatons students passed by, trailing perfume and laughter. One of them— tall, blonde, the kind of beauty that made half the hall stare— met Alden's eyes. The smile that began to form faltered halfway, like a candle caught in the wind.
Theo noticed the moment—the way fascination turned to unease, admiration to distance. He saw it again and again: people drawn to Alden's gravity, then realizing too late how heavy it was.
When they reached the marble staircase, Theo finally spoke again.
"You weren't wrong, you know. What you said in the library."
Alden didn't respond, descending the stairs with the same measured calm.
"About power being lonely," Theo continued. "It's… obvious now. You don't even have to say a word, and they build stories about you in their heads."
"It's easier for them," Alden said quietly. "Stories are safer than people."
They walked in silence for a while, the sound of their steps echoing faintly off the stone.
"Still," Theo muttered, "you could at least smile at them once in a while. Might help the legend."
Alden gave a faint exhale— the ghost of a laugh. "If they only see the legend, what difference would it make?"
Theo looked at him then, really looked at the calm posture, the steady gaze, the way Alden carried both admiration and alienation like armor he'd long accepted. And for the first time, Theo didn't feel envy for his friend's power. He felt something closer to pity.
As they reached the end of the corridor, the faint echo of music spilled down from above— the unmistakable rhythm of another of McGonagall's dance lessons.
Theo glanced toward the sound, then back at Alden. "You ever think about what it'd be like," he asked, "if they actually saw you instead of… all this?"
Alden paused, his hand brushing the marble railing. The winter light cut across his face, cold and soft.
"Every day," he said.
Then he started walking again, leaving the music, the whispers, and the world's gaze behind him.
Snow fell in slow, deliberate spirals over the Black Lake, the flakes drifting like pale ash against the dark glass of the water. The world seemed caught in a held breath—gray sky, white ground, still air. Even the giant squid broke the surface softly, sending ripples that faded before they reached the shore.
Alden sat alone at the edge of the bank, cloak drawn close, gloved hands resting loosely on his knees. His hair, the color of new frost, caught stray flakes that melted before they settled. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular—just watching.
The quiet had weight. It pressed on the chest the way deep water did, not suffocating but absolute.
His breath fogged in the air as he murmured to himself, barely a whisper,
"It's lonely at the top."
He didn't say it as a complaint, or regret—just as a fact.
Footsteps broke the snow behind him. Soft, hesitant. Measured enough that he knew who it was before she spoke.
"Theo said I'd find you here," came Daphne's voice, careful but clear.
Alden didn't turn right away. "And did he also say why?"
"He said you'd probably deny everything," she replied, stepping closer.
That earned the faintest curve of a smile from him. He shifted enough to look at her, snow glittering in his hair. Daphne Greengrass—composed as ever, wrapped in Slytherin green with a fur collar, her breath fogging faintly in the cold. There was something deliberate about her presence, like she'd thought about whether to come here a dozen times before she did.
She stopped a few feet from him, eyes flicking toward the lake. "You always pick the coldest places to think."
"The lake doesn't talk back," he said. "That's rare in this castle."
She glanced at him sideways. "Theo told me what you said. About… power. And loneliness."
He was quiet. Snow gathered faintly on the tips of his boots.
"Did he now," Alden said softly. "He's getting reckless."
"He's worried about you."
"He worries too much."
Daphne folded her arms, watching the water. "He's right, though."
"About what?"
"About how people see you," she said, her voice lowering. "About how they talk. The rumors. The… legend. He said you think no one really sees you."
Alden didn't look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the reflection of the sky rippling across the surface of the lake. "Do you disagree?"
"No," she said quietly. "I think you're right. They don't."
The wind lifted, stirring her hair. For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them was still—only the slow whisper of snow against snow, the creak of the frozen reeds.
"Theo told me something else," Daphne said finally. "He said that you think power makes people lonely."
"It does."
"Then maybe you've just been looking in the wrong direction."
That made him glance at her, finally. Her gaze met his, steady, unflinching.
"What direction is that?"
"The people who don't care about your power," she said. "The ones who see what it's doing to you instead of what it gives you."
He studied her for a long moment. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes bright but clear. There was no awe there, no fear—just simple honesty, the kind that wasn't used to being spoken aloud around him.
"You think you see me, then?" he asked.
"I do," she said. "Maybe not all of you. But enough to know that you're not the story they tell in the corridors."
He looked back toward the lake, the faintest flicker of something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Theo sent you."
"He suggested," she corrected. "I decided."
The snow began to fall more heavily, a curtain of white drawing the edges of the world inward. Daphne brushed a flake from her sleeve.
"The dance is in three days," she said, voice softer now. "You should come."
"I told Snape I was considering feigning illness."
"And he told Pomfrey."
"Yes."
"So that plan's useless."
"Apparently."
Her lips quirked. "Then maybe you should find a better reason to go. Like not letting everyone else think the rumors are true."
"And what rumor is that?"
"That you think you're above them," she said. "That you don't care enough to bother pretending to be one of us."
He didn't answer.
"I know that's not true," she added.
Alden's gaze flicked toward her again, softer now. "And how exactly do you know that?"
Daphne gave a small, wry smile. "Because you wouldn't be sitting here if you really believed you were untouchable. You'd be somewhere higher, where no one could find you."
That drew an almost imperceptible laugh from him—quiet, breathy, genuine.
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."
The silence that followed wasn't cold. It was companionable, threaded with the soft rhythm of falling snow.
After a long moment, Daphne turned to leave. "Three days, Alden. If you still don't want to go, fine. But if you do—"
He looked up.
"—don't wait too long to ask," she finished, and walked back toward the castle, her footprints soft and shallow in the snow.
Alden sat for a while longer, watching the trail fade beneath the falling white. The wind shifted, carrying the echo of her words across the frozen lake.
He exhaled slowly, eyes on the horizon.
"Theo always overestimates his percentages," he murmured.
But for the first time in weeks, the words didn't sound certain.
The castle corridors glowed with winter dusk — candles burning low in their sconces, stained-glass windows casting ribbons of blue and gold over the stone floor. The air smelled faintly of frost and polish, that peculiar Hogwarts quiet that came when lessons had ended but supper hadn't yet begun.
Theo Nott rounded a corner, adjusting his scarf, when he caught sight of Daphne Greengrass standing halfway down the corridor — perfectly still, one hand pressed lightly to the banister. Her breath misted in the cold air, cheeks flushed pink not from the chill but from something else entirely.
She hadn't seen him yet. She was just standing there, expression soft and far away, the way someone looks after walking away from a moment they're still reliving.
Theo didn't interrupt. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
After a moment, Daphne drew in a slow breath, composed herself, and started down the hall — only to stop dead when she finally saw him.
"Theo," she said, voice too quick, too careful.
"Daphne," he replied, drawing her name out just enough to make her narrow her eyes.
"Don't start."
"Start what?" he asked innocently, pushing off the wall. "I didn't even say anything."
"You didn't have to."
Theo tilted his head, studying her. There it was again — that subtle, unguarded edge in her usually perfect posture. She was poised, yes, but there was something lighter in her now, a kind of contained electricity, like she was holding in a smile and a secret all at once.
"So," Theo said casually, "did you find him?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"And?"
"And… we talked."
Theo arched a brow. "That's vague enough to be suspicious."
"He didn't say no," she muttered.
That was all Theo needed. He grinned outright. "Didn't say no? Merlin's sake, Daphne, from him that's practically a confession of devotion."
She shot him a glare sharp enough to slice parchment, but the faint color in her cheeks betrayed her. "You're impossible."
"And you're blushing," Theo countered, delighting in it.
"I am not."
"You are. It's adorable, actually. Almost human of you."
"Theo," she warned.
He laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right. I'll stop. But—" He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice, teasing but sincere. "You should know, I've never seen you look this nervous. It's almost refreshing."
Daphne looked away, eyes tracing the frost gathering along the edge of the window. "It's not nerves."
"No?"
"It's… uncertainty," she admitted quietly. "He didn't reject me. But he didn't agree either. He just listened. Like he always does. And somehow, that's worse."
Theo smiled faintly. "That's Alden for you. He hears everything, says nothing, and leaves the rest of us trying to read the silence."
Daphne's lips curved, small and genuine. "You sound like you're used to it."
"I am," he said. "But you? You might actually be the first one who can stand in that silence and not flinch."
She looked at him, surprised by the warmth in his tone. "Was that a compliment?"
"A rare one," Theo said lightly. "Don't get used to it."
The faintest laugh escaped her, soft and fleeting. "You're insufferable."
"I try."
Theo fell into step beside her as they began walking toward the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor.
"Tracy and I are going together," he mentioned offhandedly.
"I know," Daphne said. "She told me. Loudly."
Theo chuckled. "She does that. Still, it'll be nice to have someone who doesn't glare at me every other sentence."
"Don't count on it lasting," Daphne said dryly.
"Oh, I'm not," Theo replied. Then, with a sly glance, "So. Do you think our dear champion will come to the ball after all?"
Daphne's expression softened, the faintest light touching her eyes. "I think," she said, "he's thinking about it."
Theo smirked. "If he shows up, it'll be because of you."
"Or because Snape threatens him again."
"No," Theo said, shaking his head. "I saw the look when he watches you, even when he doesn't mean to. He listens to you, Daphne. That's more than most people get."
She didn't respond to that—just looked ahead, toward the faint golden light spilling out from the Great Hall.
"Maybe," she said quietly.
Theo caught the tone, smiled to himself, and decided to leave it there.
They reached the doors, and the murmur of hundreds of voices spilled out, laughter and clatter of cutlery mingling with the distant notes of music drifting from somewhere beyond.
Theo nudged her lightly with his shoulder before stepping through. "If he asks, try not to look too victorious."
Daphne gave him a look that could have frozen a basilisk—though the faint tremor of amusement ruined it halfway through.
"I'll consider it," she said.
And as Theo moved ahead to join Tracy, he cast one last glance back at her—watching the calm, composed, secretly flustered Daphne Greengrass pause in the doorway, a faint, unguarded smile touching her lips.
For the first time that week, Theo thought Alden Dreyse might not spend the Yule Ball alone.