The dungeons were quieter than usual that morning — the air still, the light soft and gray as if the lake itself were pressing its cold weight against the walls. Every breath came out misted. Somewhere beyond the stone, a clock tolled six.
Alden Dreyse was already awake.
He sat at the edge of his bed, bare feet against the flagstones, the chill creeping up his legs like a reminder that the day had come. The air smelled faintly of iron and damp parchment — and beneath that, the scent of lake water that clung to him from nights of testing.
He reached for the folded clothes at his bedside: plain black swim trunks first, fitted close like armor, followed by a wool undershirt and the dark waterproof cloak trimmed in silver at the hem. Every motion was exact — deliberate — as if by controlling the small things, he could order the larger ones that waited outside.
When he fastened his wand harness against his forearm, the wood hummed faintly under the pressure of his skin. The spell lines etched there — faint runes for air and balance — warmed in recognition.
Behind him, Draco stirred. There was a groggy grunt, then the rustle of sheets and that familiar drawl:
"Merlin's ghost, Dreyse, do you ever sleep?"
Alden looked over his shoulder. "When there's time."
Draco sat up, hair a perfect disaster, eyes still half-shut. "You sound like Snape. You're going to give yourself wrinkles before you hit sixteen."
"Then I'll blend in at the staff table."
Draco blinked, then smirked. "Ha! There is life behind that deadpan. You're lucky, you know — today's your big moment. Whole school watching, girls fainting, Potter probably drowning himself in nerves."
Blaise's voice floated sleepily from the next bed over. "Or in the lake."
"Please," Draco said, waving a hand, "Potter can't swim without his broom. Dreyse, though —" he pointed dramatically toward Alden, "— Slytherin's champion. Finally, a proper example of House superiority."
"Your humility astounds me," Blaise muttered, pulling a pillow over his face.
Draco ignored him entirely. "When you win, we're having the elves bring wine. Imported. French. The good stuff Father keeps locked away."
Alden adjusted the clasp on his cloak. "You're planning the celebration before it starts?"
"Of course," Draco said breezily, tossing back his covers. "Confidence is half the duel."
"Arrogance is the other half," Blaise mumbled.
Alden allowed himself the faintest shadow of amusement. "He's not wrong."
Draco scowled, halfway through knotting his tie. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
By the time the others began to properly wake — Crabbe and Goyle groaning like dying trolls in the corner — Alden had already laced his boots and was checking the vials Snape had left him. He unstoppered one briefly; the draught smelled of crushed mint and metal.
"Still drinking poison before breakfast?" Draco asked, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror.
"Insurance," Alden said.
"Against what?"
"Drowning."
Blaise peeked out from under the pillow. "Charming."
Alden slipped the vial back into his pocket and pulled on his gloves. The room was filling with sound now — fabric, laughter, the metallic ring of belts and buckles. Yet for him, everything remained curiously distant, as if the world were already underwater and muffled.
Draco clapped him once on the shoulder. "Try to look like you're enjoying the fame, will you? You'll make the rest of us look bad."
"I'm not here to look like anything," Alden said quietly.
That tone — even — unbothered — was enough to still the conversation for a heartbeat. Draco met his eyes in the mirror and hesitated, just long enough to realize something. Then, because he was Draco, he smirked to cover it.
"Fine, fine. Just don't let Potter steal the spotlight. It's indecent."
"Noted."
Alden gave his reflection one last look — silver-grey eyes catching the dim light, hair pale against the dark collar of his cloak. His face was calm. Too calm. He adjusted his gloves once more, then turned toward the door.
"Breakfast?" he said.
Draco stretched, yawning. "Lead the way, Dark Prince of the Deep."
Blaise groaned again. "If he drowns, I'm inheriting his bed."
Alden didn't respond. The sound of their voices faded behind him as he stepped into the corridor, the chill of the stone meeting him like an old friend.
It was the stillness before the storm. And Alden had never trusted stillness.
The Great Hall was already alive by the time Alden and the others arrived.
It was early still — the kind of pale, uncertain hour when the light hasn't quite committed to being day. The enchanted ceiling hung low and heavy, gray clouds swirling over the long tables, a mirror to the lake outside. The air was cool enough to mist breath.
But that didn't stop the noise.
Excitement moved through the room like current through a wire. Gryffindors huddled in loud speculation over toast; Hufflepuffs were chattering, waving copies of the Daily Prophet like betting slips; even the Ravenclaws had given up quiet conversation for once, trading theories in quick, sharp bursts about what the second task could be.
The moment Alden Dreyse crossed the threshold, the volume shifted. It wasn't silence — more like a held breath.
He walked in flanked by his usual group — Draco striding half a pace ahead, smug and gleaming as if he were the one competing; Blaise and Tracey just behind, speaking low between themselves; Daphne at Alden's side, calm but watchful; Pansy, of course, already wearing one of the badges that flashed between "DREYSE — THE TRUE CHAMPION" and "POTTER STINKS."
The nearest Slytherin table erupted first. A ripple of cheers, applause, and chants of "Slytherin's Champion!" filled the hall. The green and silver banners overhead flared brighter for a moment as if feeding off the noise.
Draco threw his arms wide, grinning. "You see that? They're learning taste at last."
Alden didn't answer. His eyes swept the hall — the clusters of red and gold glaring back, the Hufflepuffs whispering, the few Ravenclaws studying him with academic curiosity. Then he made for the table, sliding into his usual place halfway down.
The smell of roasted sausage, warm bread, and pumpkin juice filled the air. The plates shimmered into refilling themselves the moment they sat.
Draco was still riding the wave of attention. "Potter must be losing his mind right now," he said, spearing an egg with unnecessary force. "Probably hasn't even figured out which end of his wand to point underwater."
Tracey snorted. "If it involves logic, he's doomed."
"Or common sense," Blaise added, reaching for a pastry. "I'd give him three minutes before he's dragged under."
"Three's generous," Pansy said, inspecting her nails. "And I want that in writing for when I collect the winnings."
"Winnings?" Tracey raised an eyebrow.
"Wagered ten Galleons on Potter failing spectacularly," Pansy said. "I'm not above profiting from his mediocrity."
Draco laughed, clinking his goblet against hers. "Now that's house spirit."
All the while, Alden sat quiet, cutting his toast with methodical precision — quarters, then halves again, as if there was comfort in geometry. His fork barely made a sound.
He could feel eyes on him — not from their table, but the rest of the hall. Some of the younger years whispered openly, passing glances like smuggled notes. A Gryffindor third-year murmured something that made her friend giggle; when Alden's gaze flicked up briefly, both went pale and ducked their heads.
The next Dark Lord myth hadn't died down since the first task. If anything, it had grown teeth.
Daphne noticed the tension in his shoulders before he did. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand under the table — light, grounding.
He didn't flinch, just glanced at her."Worried?" he asked, voice low.
"About you?" she murmured. "No."Then, quieter, "About him."
Alden's knife stilled. He didn't look at her, but the muscle in his jaw shifted. "He'll be fine."
"You sound certain."
"I don't deal in chances."
She gave a small exhale — not quite relief, not quite disbelief — and traced her thumb once against his knuckles. "You'll bring him back."
"I said I would."
"And you don't lie," she said simply.
That earned the faintest curve of his mouth — not quite a smile, but close."Not to you."
The conversation at the table rolled on, unaware. Draco was still loudly hypothesizing that the task would involve battling sea serpents. "Wouldn't that be poetic? A Slytherin against a snake." And Tracey was laughing herself to tears at Blaise's impression of Moody falling into the lake.
Alden tuned it out. He wasn't angry, or even nervous. Just… still. His mind was already half a mile away, beneath gray water, in silence.
Daphne must have sensed it. She said nothing more, only left her hand resting against his — not a declaration, just a quiet presence.
Around them, the Great Hall hummed with the morning's anticipation. Somewhere down the table, a group of second-years started chanting, "Dreyse! Dreyse!" until McGonagall's sharp ahem silenced them.
Draco smirked, taking another long sip of pumpkin juice."Try not to look so grim, Alden. You'll ruin our reputation for composure."
Alden lifted his eyes finally, voice smooth. "I'm not grim."
"Then what are you?"
"Focused."
That single word carried weight. Enough that even Draco didn't reply right away.
The tension broke with Tracey's teasing, "Well, I'm just glad it's you going down there. My hair would never forgive me for an hour underwater."
That earned laughter from everyone — even Blaise, who muttered, "Priorities, Davis. Truly noble."
But as they laughed, Daphne's gaze remained on Alden. And Alden, expression calm, eyes pale and clear as ice, simply reached for his tea, murmuring, almost to himself—
"An hour is long enough."
The words vanished under the noise of the hall, but Daphne heard them. And in that moment, she wasn't sure if he was reassuring her — or himself.
The path down from the castle looked carved from fog. Gray sky pressed low, the stones slick with the last sheen of melted frost. Breath misted in front of faces — hundreds of them — as the school spilled out through the great oak doors in restless excitement.
Alden walked with the Slytherins.
They moved as if the morning belonged to them — emerald and silver, a current in the tide of students. Draco and Pansy were up front, their stride practiced arrogance, clearing a path with little more than posture. Crabbe and Goyle trailed close behind like boulders rolling downhill, their bulk a silent barrier against the crush of bodies. Blaise and Tracey followed just behind them, arguing under their breath over the odds of what the task would be.
And in the middle, flanked by all of them, was Alden. Cloak drawn close, collar high, steps measured. His expression didn't invite conversation, but his silence didn't weigh on them the way it used to. They'd grown used to it — the calm before something precise.
The crowd around them buzzed, voices overlapping — excitement, nerves, bravado."Do you think they fight something again?""No, it's in the lake! They'll drown!""I heard mermaids — or maybe grindylows!""Ten Galleons says Potter faints before he jumps in!"
The Weasley twins were at it again near the edge of the crowd, wands flashing as they floated betting slips in midair."Ten-to-one Dreyse freezes the lake solid!" George called."Five-to-one if he freezes Potter, too!" Fred added. Laughter rippled through the students. Draco grinned broadly, calling out, "Make it three-to-one and I'll take those odds myself!"
"Honestly," Tracey said dryly, "you'd bet on snowfall in July if it had Slytherin colors."
"Of course I would," Draco replied. "Slytherin would make it snow better."
They all laughed — even Blaise, whose usual indifference softened into something almost warm. For a brief moment, it felt like just another morning walk to class, if not for the cold heaviness in the air.
Daphne walked beside Alden, gloved fingers brushing against his hand. She didn't take it, not yet — but the contact was enough to draw his gaze downward. Her hair was pinned up neatly, a few strands escaping to catch in the wind, her expression composed, but her eyes tracing his face, searching.
"You're quiet," she said finally, voice barely audible above the chatter.
"Thinking," Alden murmured.
"About the task?"
"About timing. About air. About not wasting either."
"Typical," Tracey said from behind them, overhearing. "Leave it to you to treat drowning like an exam."
Blaise smirked. "He'll pass it, regardless."
Draco, walking backward now just to be seen, tossed a grin over his shoulder. "He'll do more than that. Potter's going to be choking on bubbles before Alden even gets his hair wet."
"Draco," Pansy scolded half-heartedly, "honestly, can't you let him breathe before the competition?"
"Breathing's his department now," Draco said cheerfully. "I'm just here to make sure history knows who the real champion is."
He looked over at Alden then, smirk fading slightly. "You've got this. Easy."
Alden blinked once, the faintest tilt of his head — acknowledgment without words. But for Draco, that was enough.
As they neared the lake, the sound changed — from the echo of voices to the softer hiss of wind over water. The expanse stretched out before them, a vast plate of iron-gray beneath a sky the same color. The surface was still, waiting. Judges and officials gathered along a wooden platform on one side, their cloaks snapping in the cold. Opposite them, rows of tiered stands had been erected for the spectators, charmed to resist wind and damp.
The Slytherins began to split off — Pansy tugging on Draco's sleeve, Blaise already scanning for a good view, Tracey calling for them to hurry or they'd lose the front rows.
Daphne lingered.
Her hand found Alden's at last, fingers lacing with his — not hesitantly, not boldly, just sure. He stopped walking, looking down at her.
"You'll be brilliant," she said, soft but steady.
"Brilliant isn't the goal."
"Alive, then."
He almost smiled. "That one, yes."
She squeezed his hand once more before stepping back. "Good. Because Theo's going to owe me five Galleons when you drag him back up."
Her attempt at levity faltered slightly at the end, but Alden's eyes softened. "You have little faith in him."
"In him? None at all. In you?" She let the words hang, the faintest smile forming. "Always."
He didn't answer — he rarely did when something mattered — but the small nod he gave her spoke more clearly than words.
Then he turned away, cloak brushing the ground, and started toward the separate bank where the champions waited.
The noise behind him dimmed as the distance grew. The air was sharper here, colder, the smell of water stronger. Ahead, the judges stood in a neat line — Dumbledore's calm figure beside Bagman's restless energy, Madame Maxime a mountain in midnight silk, and Karkaroff already fussing with his cuffs.
The crowd roared again somewhere behind him as another champion approached.
Alden didn't look back.
He simply crossed the last stretch of frost-hardened ground, boots crunching softly, until the lake's edge met him and the mist swallowed the sound of everything else.
The walk to the judges' platform was short — yet each step stretched thin with tension, the kind that bends air before a storm. The lake loomed vast and silent ahead, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the dull pewter of the clouds above. Mist hovered low, curling around ankles, swallowing the world past a dozen feet.
Alden reached the edge of the wooden platform where the judges stood waiting. Gold cloth draped the long table, its edges snapping faintly in the wind. The five figures behind it were a strange constellation of contrasts — Dumbledore serene, Madame Maxime imperious and watchful, Karkaroff pale and restless, Bagman almost vibrating with forced cheer, and Percy Weasley substituting stiffly for Mr. Crouch, quill poised like a bayonet.
The other champions were already assembled.
Fleur stood nearest to Maxime, robes exchanged for a silver-blue swim garment that shimmered faintly with enchantments. Krum was beside her, broad-shouldered and tense, wand in hand. Potter came next, his hair a dark, damp mess against his forehead, eyes flicking toward Alden with the faint unease of someone who couldn't quite decide whether to measure or avoid him.
Alden took his place silently, his cloak falling still around him. He could feel the cold even through the lining — sharper here by the water, biting at fingers and throat. He inhaled, slow and steady. The air tasted metallic, like the surface of a blade.
"Mr. Dreyse," Dumbledore greeted mildly, nodding in his direction. "You seem composed this morning."
Alden inclined his head. "Composure costs less than panic."
Karkaroff's mouth twisted faintly. "We shall see if that philosophy holds when the water bites."
Alden didn't look at him. "Water doesn't bite, Headmaster. It drowns. Efficiently."
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth flickered, as though amused; Maxime looked faintly intrigued. Bagman, however, clapped his hands together, eager to cut through the cold weight of words.
"Excellent! Splendid! Everyone here, everyone ready — very good! Nothing like punctuality, eh?" He turned, raising his wand to his throat. "Now then, let's get everyone sorted out."
While Bagman moved to space the champions apart, Alden glanced across the lake. The stands on the opposite bank were alive — thousands of students filling the air with their breath and sound. Emerald, scarlet, blue, and yellow wove through the stands like living banners. Even from here, the noise carried strangely across the still water — cheers, chants, laughter, the deep hum of anticipation.
Somewhere in the front rows, Daphne Greengrass leaned forward, scanning the far side of the lake. Tracey was beside her, clutching her gloves, Blaise half-standing on the bench to get a better view. Draco was loud enough for everyone around him to hear.
"Any moment now," Tracey murmured, her breath fogging. "Shouldn't he be there already?"
Daphne's eyes didn't move from the distant figures. "He's there," she said softly. "He'll come when he means to."
Draco snorted, half anxious, half amused. "He'd better. Otherwise, I've got to listen to Potter's fan club screaming for an hour."
Pansy elbowed him. "Shut up, Draco."
The crowd shifted again, noise rising as Bagman's magically amplified voice thundered across the lake.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here this fine February morning for the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament!"
The sound carried like a peal of thunder. Students leaned forward in unison, the wind pushing stray hair and scarves across faces.
Bagman continued, pacing along the edge of the dock, his grin wide and breath fogging in the cold. "Each of our champions has had something precious taken from them — something that lies waiting for them beneath the surface of this very lake. They have precisely one hour to retrieve it!"
He turned, gesturing toward the four young figures lined along the water's edge. "Our champions: Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons! Viktor Krum of Durmstrang! Harry Potter of Hogwarts!"
A cheer erupted from the stands. The Gryffindor section nearly shook the air itself.
Bagman's grin brightened. "And of course — Alden Dreyse of Hogwarts!"
The roar that followed was different. Sharper. A wall of green and silver surged in answer, Slytherins on their feet, waving scarves and banners charmed with serpents that shimmered like living scales. The chant came rolling through the stands —"Dreyse! Dreyse! Dreyse!"
Draco's voice led them, hands cupped around his mouth as if commanding an army. Daphne didn't join in. She just exhaled, the breath trembling slightly, eyes fixed on that lone figure standing apart — her figure, silent against the gray.
Back on the dock, Alden didn't flinch at the noise. He stood still as stone, gaze fixed on the water. The mist around the lake stirred faintly, pulled by the wards humming beneath the surface.
"Champions," Bagman's magically loud voice boomed again, "on my whistle!"
He raised the small silver whistle to his lips.
Alden rolled back the cuffs of his cloak, exposing pale wrists marked with faint runes like threads of ink. Fleur flexed her wand hand; Krum took a low, bracing stance. Potter bent slightly, wand ready.
The whistle pierced the cold — one clean, cutting note that shattered the waiting silence.
And before the sound had even faded, Alden Dreyse was moving.
He stepped into the water like someone stepping through a door — calm, precise, unhurried — until the lake swallowed him whole, and the surface sealed above like glass.
From the stands, Daphne's breath hitched.
"See?" Draco said, half in awe, half in pride. "Told you. Not even the water slows him down."
But Daphne didn't answer. Her eyes stayed on the lake's rippling skin, waiting for a sign — knowing that if there was one thing Alden Dreyse didn't believe in, it was surfacing before the task was done.