The last bow broke like a held breath. Then the hall erupted.
Lanterns flared to a brighter silver; the Weird Sisters slammed into a jubilant riff—drums punching, strings skirling, bagpipes honking a single triumphant note that made the fairies scatter like thrown sequins. Students surged toward the floor in a laughing tide, dress robes and satin and school colours blurring into one moving, shimmering whole.
"Three—two—one!" someone shouted, and the band obliged—kicking the tempo up so fast a dozen couples whooped aloud.
Alden and Daphne slipped from the centre as the first wave crashed past. He steadied her down the shallow step with two fingers at her wrist; the twin serpents there flashed green, then silver, as if they too were startled by the noise. Daphne's shoulders lifted with a delighted breath she didn't quite let go of. She looked, for once, unguarded and not at all icy—like someone who'd remembered a song from childhood and found she still knew the steps.
"Drink?" Theo appeared as if conjured, shoving two fluted glasses into their hands with the solemnity of a coronation. "You didn't disgrace the House. Tragic, really."
"Speak for yourself," Tracey said, sliding in on Theo's other side, cheeks pink from sprinting through a knot of Hufflepuffs. "I nearly cried. It was very tasteful. Didn't step on even one toe." She leaned to Daphne, conspiratorial. "How did you train him?"
"I bribed him with conversation," Daphne said loftily, accepting the glass. "And threatened to steal his potion and drink it myself if he tried to vanish before the second song."
Alden tilted his head, amused. "I don't recall agreeing to the second song."
"Then consider this your informed consent," Daphne returned, and clinked her glass gently to his.
A roar of laughter rose behind them. Harry and Parvati were enveloped by a gaggle of Gryffindors attempting to teach a jump-step that involved far more enthusiasm than balance. Fleur had Roger by both hands and was spinning him so hard his ears had turned the colour of his tie; Hermione, pink and radiant, was letting Krum attempt a hop that would—eventually—become dancing. The sight tugged a smile from Daphne; the smile tugged one from Alden, the sort that warmed and vanished quickly, as if unsure of its right to stay.
"Look at Flitwick," Tracey breathed.
Professor Flitwick, buoyed on the palms of a half-dozen jubilant Ravenclaws, crowd-surfed for all of two seconds before tumbling, giggling, onto a bench and waving his wand to right his spectacles. Professor Sprout whooped. Even McGonagall—heavens—smiled.
Blaise drifted up in Blaise's eternal lounge, hands in pockets, posture a poem of pleased indifference. "Acceptable spectacle," he said, eyeing Alden's silver-lined cuffs. "If he'd fallen on his head, we'd have had to clap harder."
"Don't be vile," Pansy sniffed, arriving in a cloud of peony perfume. She gave Alden a critical once-over that failed to find purchase and landed instead on Daphne's bracelet. "Fine work. Antique?"
"Family," Daphne said. The serpents gleamed once, as if agreeing.
Pansy hmmed as though fortunate genes were a personal insult. "Well. If you two insist on hogging all the aesthetics, the rest of us will have to rely on conversation."
"Perish the thought," Blaise murmured.
Alden took a measured sip, then glanced down as Daphne's elbow nudged his sleeve. Her eyes had slid to the edge of the floor, where a pair of third-years were attempting to invent a new step involving knees, elbows, and no sense. "Don't stare," she said softly, amused. "It's unkind to the young."
"I was calculating casualty risk," Alden replied.
"Don't," Theo said. "It ruins the romance."
A ripple went through the crowd; Bagman executed a ridiculous twirl with McGonagall, who pretended not to be charmed and failed magnificently. Hagrid and Madame Maxime carved a slow orbit through the mass, fairies rising like startled dandelion fluff as they passed. Somewhere near the faculty table, Percy Weasley managed to look pompous even while clapping in time.
Daphne tipped her chin toward the floor. "We should be claimed. It's a party, not an exhibit."
"On one condition," Alden said.
She arched a brow. "Name it."
"Return the favour." He offered Tracey a hand with a little bow that was half mockery, half impeccable. "Miss Davis?"
Tracey blinked at the sudden promotion to co-conspirator, then grinned wide enough to show a dimple. "Thought you'd never ask." She tossed her glass into Theo's unsuspecting hand and spun out with Alden into the high, lively churn.
Daphne watched him go—watched the clean geometry of his footwork loosen to a more human line as Tracey teased him through a ridiculous turn. The silver lining at his hem flared like quicksilver every time he pivoted. He had always been precise. He had not always laughed this easily.
Theo angled an elbow at Daphne. "Satisfied, are we?"
"Deeply," she said. "He follows instructions unnervingly well."
"Mm. I'd be offended if you weren't using your powers for good."
"For once," Daphne said, letting the music thrum through her ribs. "All right—your turn or Draco's?"
"Draco's," Theo said at once. "He's combusting."
Draco materialised with the desperate hauteur of a man who'd rehearsed his nonchalance. "If you absolutely insist," he said, already holding out his hand.
"I absolutely do," Daphne said, surrendering her glass to Theo and stepping into Draco's very respectable frame. He danced better than he pretended to; the swagger bled out after three counts and left behind the boy who had practised to be sure he wouldn't humiliate himself beside his friends.
"You look infuriatingly pleased with yourself," Draco told her, deadpan.
"That's because I am," Daphne said. They turned; the room swung past in a whirl of silver and ivy. "Don't keep him too long," she added, nodding toward Alden as Tracey executed a flourish that made him laugh and the surrounding knot of Hufflepuffs cheer.
"I shan't," Draco said, surprising himself by sounding fond. "He looks—" He searched for the word, found one he would only ever use here. "—happy."
"Scandal," Daphne murmured. "Do try to cope."
When Draco returned her, Alden was already halfway back, extracting himself from Tracey's curtsy with courtly silliness. Pansy, who had been pretending not to watch, pretended even harder and failed.
"Davis," Alden said gravely, "you are irresponsible with momentum."
"You're welcome," Tracey said, breathless and delighted. "Greengrass, your property."
"Borrowed," Daphne said, and slid her hand back into Alden's as if it had belonged there all evening.
For a moment, they stood inside the noise together, doing nothing, and the noise somehow didn't touch them. Then the song crested; a new one leapt in at the edges, brighter and a fraction too fast. Someone near the band struck a chord that wobbled outrageously and was rescued by a laughing cellist. Laughter spilled down the marble like champagne.
"Another?" Alden asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes," Daphne said, already moving.
They went. The hall flexed around them, opening and closing like a lung. They threaded through lines of colour and heat—past Blaise pretending to be bored while keeping perfect time, past Theo clapping arrhythmically to annoy a knot of Gryffindors, past Pansy lecturing a Beauxbatons boy on the correct angle for a compliment. Alden's hand stayed at the curve of Daphne's back; her hand stayed at his shoulder; the serpents at her wrist kept glinting like a heartbeat that had decided—for tonight at least—to keep excellent time.
"See?" she said, under the rushing noise, mouth close to his ear. "No dragon. Just music."
He didn't say he preferred dragons. He didn't say anything at all. He let the line of her smile, the pale heat along his palm, the way her laugh cut clean through the roar, speak for him.
From the edge, Theo watched, the corner of his mouth pulled into a line that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite not. "They're bloody perfect," he said, almost to himself.
"Infuriating," Draco agreed, and meant fine… good… yes, all right then.
"Tragic for the rest of us," Blaise observed.
"Shut up and clap on the beat," Tracey told him, and dragged them both back toward the tide just as the band yelled for the crowd to jump, and the hall obliged, and for a little while there was only the thunder of feet and the dazzle of lanterns and the cooling echo of a waltz that had set the night's heart to the right tempo.
The Weird Sisters swung into a different tempo, something halfway between a jig and a spell gone joyfully wrong. The beat bounced off the rafters, and the floating candles trembled with every thrum. The dance floor looked like a living tapestry — house colours melting together, silk and satin rippling like water.
Alden and Daphne drifted toward the edge to catch their breath. Their hands still hadn't entirely let go of each other, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to correct it. Tracey intercepted them first, clutching her shoes in one hand and a butterbeer in the other. Her hair had escaped its twist, curling wildly around her flushed face.
"You're impossible," she said to Daphne, without preamble. "Do you two ever look human? Or is that banned in the Dreyse-Greengrass treaty?"
Daphne smirked. "Clause Four: Excessive elegance at public gatherings. It's compulsory."
Alden lifted a brow. "You neglected to mention that in the fine print."
"Subsection three," Tracey said, handing him her drink, "you buy the next round. You owe me for nearly upstaging us."
"I was merely complying with tradition," Alden replied, deadpan. "If Slytherin is to dominate social functions as well as academics, someone must lead by example."
"Arrogant as ever," Tracey said fondly, and snatched the bottle back before he could drink. "But I'll give you this—you can actually dance. Who'd have thought?"
"Not him," Daphne murmured.
Pansy glided over before Alden could retort, eyes sharp as ever but softened tonight by laughter and champagne. "Tracey's right. I had a wager going that you'd faint halfway through the first waltz."
"Disappointing return on investment," Alden said. "You should diversify your portfolio."
"I'm reconsidering," Pansy said, sipping her drink with exaggerated poise. "You might even be tolerable when you're not terrifying half the school."
Daphne laughed outright; it was the kind of laugh that turned heads—bright and melodic, like light shattering on glass. "He's only terrifying when he's bored. Keep him occupied, and he's fine."
"I'll leave that to you," Pansy said airily.
Theo joined them then, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. Draco trailed behind, tugging at his collar, Blaise sauntering as though he'd been born in rhythm. They formed an easy semicircle around Alden and Daphne, the way people unconsciously close ranks around something important to them.
Theo raised his butterbeer. "To the myth," he said dryly, "who apparently bleeds after all."
Alden tilted his glass. "To my chronic enablers."
Draco grinned. "Slytherin unity at last. Who would've thought it'd take a dance to make us look civilised?"
"Speak for yourself," Tracey said, tugging Draco's sleeve. "You still can't waltz without glaring at your feet."
"I'm strategising my next step," Draco countered. "Precision isn't rudeness."
"Precision," Blaise echoed, eyes glinting, "is what got our dear Alden here mistaken for a dark lord in the first place. Efficiency terrifies people."
"It's not efficiency," Theo said. "It's the stare. He has a stare that makes you feel like you've confessed to a crime."
"Incorrect," Alden said smoothly. "You usually have."
That earned laughter—real, unguarded laughter. Even Pansy laughed, trying to disguise it behind her drink and failing miserably.
The song changed again—drums snapping, guitars twining in a wild Celtic reel. The crowd cheered.
"Your turn," Daphne said, giving Alden a little shove toward Tracey.
He blinked. "My turn for what?"
"To prove you're not all intimidation and black robes," she said, smirking. "Dance with someone who doesn't know your terrifying résumé."
"Terrifying résumé?" Tracey repeated, already grabbing his arm. "You mean my good fortune."
Before he could argue, Tracey spun him into the crowd. She danced like she spoke—quick, bright, unpredictable. Alden followed her lead, adjusting in tiny, measured movements until they fell into sync.
Tracey leaned closer, voice half lost under the music. "You know," she said, "you're not what I expected when Daphne said she liked you."
He turned his head just enough for her to see the faint lift of his brow. "Liked?"
"Oh, she didn't say it," Tracey said cheerfully. "But I'm observant."
"Unfortunate habit."
"Don't worry," she said, spinning under his arm. "Your secret's safe with me. For a price."
"What price?"
"Another round of butterbeer," she said, and darted away with a laugh before he could answer.
Daphne was waiting at the edge, smirking as Alden returned. "She didn't extort you, did she?"
"Only mildly," Alden said. "I may owe her a drink."
"That's an improvement," Daphne said. "Usually, you owe people an apology or a hex."
Theo snorted from behind them. "Progress, then."
They lingered together as the music surged. Pansy and Blaise bickered companionably, Draco attempted to teach Tracey a move he clearly didn't know himself, and Theo was half-singing along, off-key and unashamed.
For once, Slytherin didn't look like the house of whispered ambition or whispered suspicion. It looked like a collection of young people who'd found their rhythm for the night.
Daphne leaned close to Alden, voice low enough that only he could hear. "They're happy for you, you know."
"I noticed," he said quietly. "It's… strange."
"Strange?"
He hesitated, eyes softening as he watched Theo steal Tracey's drink and Draco feign outrage. "I'm not used to being part of the noise. I'm usually the silence people talk around."
"Then stay in the noise tonight," she said. "You can go back to silence tomorrow."
Alden looked at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I may hold you responsible for the ringing in my ears."
"Gladly," Daphne said, and tugged him back toward the crowd.
The song leapt into its final verse. They joined the dance, laughter scattering like sparks through the air. House boundaries blurred into one spinning, living constellation—black and gold, green and scarlet, blue and bronze.
And in the middle of it all, Alden Dreyse — the boy everyone whispered about — was laughing with his friends under the glittering lights, a faint smear of silver dust on his sleeve where Daphne's bracelet had brushed it.
The night had settled into that golden, unrepeatable middle — the moment when even time seemed reluctant to keep moving forward. Laughter filled the Great Hall like smoke, thick and glittering under the floating lights. Every house, every guest, every age seemed to be moving to the same pulse.
Near the top table, Alden and Daphne slowed their steps, the last of the reel still echoing faintly in their feet. The music had shifted to something slower, jazzier — a rhythm meant for the older guests who had survived the first half of the night with dignity intact.
Professor Dumbledore was unmistakable in the middle of the floor, one hand at Professor Sprout's waist as they glided in an oddly charming waltz. Sprout was pink-cheeked and laughing, her small feet light in sensible boots, while Dumbledore's long sleeves swirled like comet tails. "Excellent form, Pomona!" he called, spinning her beneath an arch of fairy lights. "You've quite undone my theories about equilibrium!"
Across the room, Professor McGonagall was locked in a battle disguised as a dance with Ludo Bagman. He was bounding across the floor like a jubilant Bludger, sending terrified fourth-years scrambling for safety. McGonagall, despite her tartan and impeccable posture, was smiling — actually smiling — as Bagman twirled her, nearly toppling a table of Durmstrang boys.
"You have to admire her patience," Daphne murmured, watching. "I'd have hexed him by the second chorus."
"I suspect she's weighing that as we speak," Alden replied.
Their gaze drifted as the crowd parted briefly for Hagrid and Madame Maxime, who swept through the room like a ship under full sail. Her lavender gown shimmered in the candlelight, opals gleaming across her throat. Hagrid's brown suit was clearly straining at the seams, but his face was alight — open, joyous, unguarded.
"Magnificent," Daphne said softly. "He's not even trying to hide how happy he is."
"He's never seen the point of hiding," Alden said. His tone wasn't sharp, but it carried a distant note — something like envy dressed as observation.
Just then, a ripple passed through the surrounding students. Someone whispered, a single word caught like a hook in the air: giant.
Madame Maxime's smile flickered. Her head turned ever so slightly toward the sound, and though her voice stayed even, her shoulders stiffened as she murmured something to Hagrid. The laughter around them wavered, unsure. Then Hagrid, blissfully oblivious or choosing not to care, chuckled loud enough to drown out the gossip. Maxime's answering smile was as thin as glass.
Daphne's expression cooled. "Some things never change," she said quietly.
"No," Alden said. His gaze was distant. "But some people stop noticing."
They continued walking toward the dais, where the four champions and their partners were gathered near the judges' table. Fleur Delacour turned as they approached, radiant in ice-blue silk. The fairy lights seemed to bend toward her as though she were their source.
"Ah, 'Ogwarts has its charms after all," Fleur said with a graceful nod. "Zis lighting — it is almost Beauxbatons quality."
"Almost?" Daphne echoed, her tone polite but edged with mischief.
Fleur smiled. "We must allow Dumbledore's attempts."
Alden inclined his head slightly. "Coming from Beauxbatons, that's nearly a compliment."
"It is a compliment," Fleur said, amused. "And you, Monsieur Dreyse — you waltz like someone trained by ghosts."
"Old family habits," Alden replied. "They're difficult to bury."
Fleur's eyes lingered, perhaps intrigued, perhaps wary. Then she turned to greet someone else, her laugh ringing through the air like crystal.
Krum stood nearby, silent as ever, his hands folded behind his back. He inclined his head once to Alden — curt, deliberate — and then turned his attention to Daphne. His accent thickened around her name. "Greengrass. You dance vell."
"Thank you, Viktor," Daphne said warmly. "You're enjoying yourself, I hope?"
He hesitated, glancing toward Hermione — who was deep in conversation with Parvati about the charmwork in the chandeliers. "It is... different," he said finally. "Loud. But good."
"Loudness has its uses," Alden murmured.
"Da," Krum said gravely, as if that were philosophy enough.
Harry passed them a moment later, arm brushed by Parvati's bangles. His expression was half awkward, half intrigued as he glanced from Daphne to Alden. For all their differences, there was no hostility — just that silent acknowledgement between two people who'd both been shaped by expectation.
"Evening," Harry said, polite and uncertain.
Alden gave a short nod. "Potter."
Daphne smiled. "Your partner looks lovely, by the way."
Harry blinked, startled by the sincerity. "Oh—uh—thanks," he said, ears reddening. "You both, uh... You look..."
"Like trouble," Parvati supplied with a grin, saving him. "But the elegant sort."
Daphne laughed softly. "The best kind."
As Harry and Parvati were pulled back into the crowd, Daphne turned to Alden with a small, knowing smile. "See? You don't always frighten people."
"I'm losing my edge," he said dryly.
"Maybe you're gaining perspective."
He looked down at her, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging his mouth. "Perspective doesn't come easily in Slytherin."
"Neither does sincerity," Daphne said, "but you manage both."
The conversation around them hummed — Fleur and Roger flirting shamelessly near the judges' table, Bagman boasting to a group of Durmstrang students about his Quidditch days, Percy Weasley standing too straight, clearly thrilled to be included. The hall glowed with candlelight and laughter, the kind of warmth Hogwarts rarely allowed to exist without shadow.
And for once, Alden stood in the middle of it — not apart from the world, but inside it.
Dumbledore and Sprout drifted past again, the Headmaster's robes brushing faintly against Alden's as he twirled the professor in a slow, almost weightless circle. "Marvelous night, isn't it, Mr. Dreyse?" Dumbledore said lightly, his blue eyes twinkling.
Alden inclined his head. "Unexpectedly so."
Dumbledore's smile deepened. "The best nights often are."
He moved on, Sprout giggling into his sleeve, leaving Alden and Daphne in the glow of lanternlight — silver and green entwined in the reflection of the polished floor.
"Unexpectedly so?" Daphne repeated, arching a brow.
He looked at her properly then, that half-smile breaking into something softer. "Entirely so."
She squeezed his hand once. "Good. I'd hate for you to waste a miracle by pretending it's ordinary."
And somewhere behind them, McGonagall's tart voice cut through the music: "Mr. Bagman! Kindly stop spinning before someone dies!"The hall roared with laughter.
Alden didn't. He only smiled — quietly, privately — as if the world was finally allowing him to.
The corridors of Hogwarts had emptied into the sound of distant laughter and music. The Great Hall pulsed faintly with the muffled thunder of the Weird Sisters, but beyond its silver doors, the castle returned to its more familiar tone — stone and echo, candlelight and chill.
Then came the sound of boots. Sharp, measured. Merciless.
Professor Severus Snape moved like a storm given human form — black cloak cutting through the air in decisive swirls, the faint scent of damp potion smoke following in his wake. His expression was a kind of permanent disdain, sharpened tonight by exhaustion and the undeniable horror of witnessing colleagues dance.
A whimper cut through the quiet. Somewhere near the rose garden.
Snape's eyes narrowed. He turned the corner and raised his wand. "Lumos."
Two silhouettes froze mid-motion — one tangled in the rosebush, the other halfway out of it, face red, tie undone.
"Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett," Snape said silkily. "For reckless horticultural damage."
The boy tried to speak. "Professor, I—"
"Ten more from Hufflepuff, Stebbins," Snape continued, his voice the soft hum of a blade unsheathing. "For poor taste in accomplices."
The bush rustled as they fled in opposite directions. Snape extinguished his wand with a flick, muttering under his breath. "The educational standards fall further every year."
He moved on. His cloak snapped once, twice — the sound of thunder compressed into fabric. Outside, the air bit colder. Frost crusted the stone balustrades; fairy lights from the rose garden blinked like faint, mocking eyes.
A low creak came from the carriage path. Snape's head turned sharply.
He crossed the courtyard in three strides and rapped his knuckles against a carriage door.
A yelp, followed by a muffled thump.
"Ten points," he said dryly, voice cutting through the wood, "for breathtaking stupidity. Each."
He turned before they could answer, the door cracking open behind him just long enough for a pair of terrified faces to appear. He didn't look back.
Instead, his gaze found movement at the far edge of the courtyard.
Igor Karkaroff glided from the shadows like oil over water — pale, restless, eyes darting. The silver light caught the edges of his fur collar, but it did nothing to soften him.
"Severus," he hissed. "You are out here as well? Good. Good. We must speak."
Snape didn't slow. "I'm in no mood for your paranoia, Igor."
"It's not paranoia!" Karkaroff's voice cracked, pitched low and urgent. "It's happening again. You've felt it, haven't you? The sign—"
"I have felt nothing," Snape said flatly.
Karkaroff stepped closer, glancing over his shoulder as though the night itself were listening. "It's returning. I can see it. The Mark—"
Snape stopped. His head turned slightly, eyes cutting sideways like a knife finding its target. "Then flee," he said softly. "Run. I'll make your excuses."
Karkaroff blinked. "You don't understand, Severus—"
"I understand perfectly." His tone was glacial now. "You've been afraid since the first crack in the sky. I am not."
Karkaroff hesitated. "And can you truly say that without fear?"
Snape looked at him for a long, heavy beat. Then:"Yes."
The silence that followed was sharp as frostbite. Somewhere inside, a cheer rose from the hall — laughter spilling faintly through the open doors — the living pulse of the world they both stood apart from.
Then: a rustle.
Snape's wand came up again before the sound finished. Another bush. Another squeal.
"Ten points from Gryffindor!" he snapped. "And detention for your tragic lack of discretion!"
Two silhouettes scattered into the cold.
When he turned back, Karkaroff was already retreating into the dark, his robes whispering against the cobblestones. "You'll see, Severus," his voice drifted faintly. "You'll see it too."
Snape didn't reply. He sheathed his wand with a single, precise motion and continued down the path, cloak flaring like wings.
The music had thinned to a softer rhythm by the time Alden and Daphne slipped out into the courtyard. The air beyond the Great Hall was sharp with winter, the sky clear and black, fractured by starlight. Fairies drifted lazily among the rosebushes, their glow casting pale halos over the frost. Somewhere behind them, laughter rose and fell like the tide, muffled through stone.
Daphne drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The green silk of her dress shimmered faintly in the fairy light, dark as pine beneath snow. "I was beginning to think you'd never leave that dance floor," she said.
Alden's breath smoked in the cold. "You make it sound as though I had a choice."
She smiled at that — soft, knowing. "You did. You always do."
They walked slowly along the path, the crunch of frost underfoot blending with the distant hum of the Weird Sisters. A fountain hissed somewhere ahead, frozen over except for the thin, whispering trickle at its heart. The fairies darted around its rim, leaving trails of light that curved and faded in the air.
Daphne stopped beside the fountain and turned to him. "Admit it," she said. "You're enjoying yourself."
Alden exhaled, the faintest ghost of a laugh threading through the sound. "I'm enjoying you enjoying yourself."
She lifted her hand, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. The bracelet he'd given her — twin silver serpents coiling around a shard of polished jet — caught the light. One serpent's eye glinted green; the other, pale silver.
"Good," she said softly. "Then the gift did its work."
He glanced at it, then at her. "It was meant to be stubborn."
"Like us," she said, smiling again.
A silence followed — not empty, but full in that rare way silence becomes when words would only flatten what's already understood. The garden smelled faintly of winter roses and old stone.
"You know," she murmured, eyes on the fountain, "you've smiled more tonight than you have all year."
"That can't be true," he said.
"It is," she replied. "Theo noticed too."
Alden huffed quietly, though there was no real denial in it. His gaze dropped to the frost gathering on the marble edge of the fountain. "I suppose that makes it official, then," he said. "The myth cracked."
Her expression softened. "It was never real, Alden. Just something the world made because it didn't understand you."
"Perhaps," he said after a beat. "Or perhaps I let them make it. It's easier that way — to be distant, untouchable. Up there, no one asks if you're tired. No one expects you to fall."
Daphne's eyes found his. "But it's cold up there, isn't it?"
He hesitated. Just a flicker. Then he said, quietly, "Always."
She didn't answer with a speech or a consolation he wouldn't believe. She only reached out, her hand finding his sleeve — the smallest gesture, but steady, grounding.
Alden's shoulders eased by a fraction, enough that the breath he released came slower, more human.
Then, from the far side of the garden, a sudden bark split the quiet:" Detention!"
A pair of students came sprinting down the path, half-laughing, half-panicked — one missing a shoe, the other still clutching a half-crushed corsage. They shot past Alden and Daphne in a flurry of frost and perfume, the echo of Snape's furious voice trailing behind like a ghost.
Daphne covered her mouth, laughing into her palm. "Ten points for romance," she whispered.
Alden's lips twitched, a reluctant smile breaking through. "Or idiocy. The distinction seems flexible tonight."
He looked at her then — truly looked. The fairies had gathered around her hair like stars caught in orbit, her eyes steady and bright in the cold. Something in him softened; the kind of softness that had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with being seen.
Daphne tilted her head slightly. "What?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just... surprised how quiet it feels, even with the world still spinning."
"Then stay here a little longer," she said, lowering her hand but not breaking the quiet between them. "Let it stop, just for tonight."
So he did. For once, Alden Dreyse didn't calculate the next move or guard the silence. He stood beneath the frost-lit roses, breath mingling with hers, and let the noise of the castle fade into something distant and harmless — the rest of the world kept safely at the edge of the light.
Midnight came softly, almost apologetically. The Weird Sisters strummed the final notes of their encore — a slow, bright tune that faded into applause and laughter. One by one, the enchanted lanterns dimmed, fairies fluttering upward in a shimmering drift toward the high, frost-painted ceiling.
Daphne exhaled and leaned lightly against Alden's arm. "I think," she murmured, "that's my limit. My feet have officially declared mutiny."
"Understandable," Alden said. His tone was even, but there was warmth beneath it — the kind of tone he reserved for the very few he trusted. "I imagine the ball would have been much less exhausting if you'd agreed to let me stay unconscious."
Her laugh was tired but bright. "And miss this? Not a chance."
They lingered by the doors as the Great Hall slowly emptied. House banners drooped in the cooling air, their colours softened by the last of the candlelight. Professors hovered at the edges — McGonagall shepherding stray Gryffindors, Flitwick attempting to coax the instruments back into their cases, Sprout helping Dumbledore find a misplaced glove.
Across the room, Snape stood near the archway, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sweeping the dispersing crowd like a hawk watching for stragglers. His gaze found Alden's group — Theo and Tracey bickering amiably, Draco pretending to be indifferent, Pansy fussing with her shoes.
Snape's mouth thinned. "Leaving already, Mr. Dreyse?"
"Yes, Professor," Alden said evenly. "The festivities seem to be winding down."
Snape's eyes flicked briefly to Daphne beside him, then to the rest of his students. "And I trust you all had a tolerable evening?"
"Lovely," Tracey chirped before anyone else could answer. "Ten out of ten, no catastrophic hexes, minimal property damage."
Draco snorted. "Minimal?"
"Ten points from your imagination," Snape said dryly. Then, after a beat, he added — "I assume you can all find your way to the common room without... incident?"
"Yes, sir," Alden replied.
Snape gave a slow nod, his gaze settling briefly — almost approvingly — on Alden. "Good. Then I'll overlook the fact that you're still in the corridors after curfew. For tonight only."
Theo grinned. "Merlin, miracles do happen."
"Ten points from Nott for tempting fate," Snape said, but there was no real bite in it. He turned on his heel, cloak billowing, and swept away down the corridor, muttering something about "children and rose gardens."
When the echo of his boots faded, Draco let out a low whistle. "Well, that's that. Slytherin House survives another social event without casualties."
"Barely," Tracey said, adjusting her heels as they stepped out into the courtyard.
The air had gone colder; frost glittered along the cobblestones like powdered glass. The music inside had faded entirely, replaced by the slow hiss of the fountain and the whisper of wind through ivy. The fairies were dwindling — a few lingered among the rosebushes, their light pale and flickering, as if tired from the night's excitement.
Daphne stopped near the fountain and looked back at the hall — the great doors now closing, the last laughter fading to silence. "It's strange," she said softly. "All that noise, all that light... and then suddenly it's gone. Like it never happened."
Alden followed her gaze. "Most things are like that," he said. "They burn bright, then leave frost where they stood."
She turned to him, smiling faintly. "That sounds like something you'd write on a tomb."
"I'd prefer it on a library wall," he replied. "But the effect's the same."
Theo called from ahead, waving. "You two planning to freeze out here or join the living?"
"Go ahead," Daphne called back. "We'll catch up."
Theo gave a knowing grin before nudging Draco. "Come on, Malfoy, before she changes her mind."
Their friends' laughter faded as they rounded the corner, their voices echoing through the empty corridors — Tracey teasing Draco about his hair, Pansy sighing that her feet were ruined forever.
And then it was quiet again. Just Alden and Daphne beneath the faint shimmer of fairy light.
For a moment, neither spoke. Frost crept along the marble lip of the fountain. Daphne's breath misted the air as she looked up at him.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For tonight." Her voice was soft, deliberate. "For not hiding from it. From me."
Alden's gaze flickered — uncertainty, then something gentler. "You make it sound as though I had a choice."
"You didn't," she said simply, and before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't hurried or dramatic — just quiet and certain, like a truth finally spoken aloud. The cold air stilled. The fairies hovered close, their pale light pooling around them like moonlight caught in glass.
When she drew back, her smile was faint but radiant. "Goodnight, Alden."
For once, words didn't come easily. He only inclined his head, voice low. "Goodnight, Daphne."
She lingered for a breath, then turned and walked toward the castle — her green gown whispering over the stone, frost melting where she stepped.
Alden stood a moment longer, eyes tracing the path she left behind, before following. He found the others waiting near the main staircase — Theo leaning against the banister, smirk already forming.
"Well," Theo said, eyes flicking between them. "That took long enough."
Alden gave him a look that might have wilted lesser men. Theo only grinned wider. "Don't glare at me, Dreyse. Even dark lords are allowed a bit of romance."
Tracey laughed. "He's blushing."
"I am not," Alden said evenly.
"You are," Draco murmured.
They all laughed again — low, conspiratorial, the kind of laughter that echoed softly against the ancient walls and made Hogwarts feel, just for a heartbeat, young.
And as they walked deeper into the castle, their steps merging with the hush of sleeping portraits and the whisper of faraway fires, Alden found himself thinking — not of prophecies or shadows or legacy — but of a single hand against his sleeve, and the warmth that refused to fade.