The Great Hall had shed its roar. What remained, two days after the lake, was the hum — the low comb of voices and paper and spoons against porcelain, as if the castle had inhaled and refused to exhale. Light bled through the high windows in a winter-white wash. The ceiling held a thin cover of cloud, moving with the slow patience of smoke.
Alden took his place half down the Slytherin table and let the noise pass through him. Buttered toast, an orange segment, tea cooling by degrees. Daphne sat at his left, gloves folded neatly beside her plate; Theo at his right, nursing black coffee with an expression that suggested he'd slept only in self-defence. Across from them, Draco was already performing for an audience, voice pitched just high enough to carry.
"—and if not for that ridiculous deduction," Draco announced, "he'd have walked it by a country mile. The judges are terrified of talent. Write that down, Zabini; posterity demands exact phrasing."
Blaise didn't look up from his eggs. "Posterity can survive on smaller portions."
Tracey nudged a copy of the Prophet toward Alden with two fingers. The paper was new — not the acid shade of gossip they'd suffered all term but a more sober grey, the masthead repainted in respectable ink. A byline near the fold read: Miriam Stride, Staff Correspondent. The headline, all angles, tried to be judicious and failed.
THE ENIGMA IN GREEN — PRODIGY OR PREMONITION?
Subhead: A student's brilliance forces a school to ask old questions in a new light.
Alden's reflection on the varnish of the table crossed the title, cutting his face in half. He did not read further. He registered the lack rather than the presence — the absence of that sharp, insectile tone that had dogged the first task. Absence had a weight of its own. Some names went on speaking in their silence.
"Theo," Tracey murmured, "do you think 'premonition' is meant to be ominous or poetic?"
Theo's mouth curved without warmth. "It's meant to sell papers to parents who like to worry in complete sentences."
A cluster of fourth-years down the table leaned together and threw glances as if they were hexes. He hexed them, the merfolk. Unprovoked. — No, they attacked him first, didn't you hear? — Moody says precision without empathy is still a curse. The words swam and slid. Alden set a fingertip against the paper's edge until the page stilled. He could feel the castle listening with them. Hogwarts remembered its myths the way trees remembered winter: in the bark.
Daphne's hand, ungloved now, came to rest beside his cup. She didn't touch him. She let the proximity say everything etiquette wouldn't.
"You don't have to read it," she said, eyes on her tea. "It's the same article written by a different quill."
He huffed — not a laugh, but its shadow. "Different ink stains much the same."
Across the hall the Gryffindor table had become a red-edged theatre of indignation. Ron Weasley talked with the careless speed of someone enjoying himself too much. His fork marked time in the air.
"Tied," Ron said. "Tied. He goes and— and blasts merfolk out of his way—"
"He didn't blast anyone," Hermione said, voice clipped, as if she could shear the morning into order by phrasing alone. "The accounts say 'repelled' and 'non-lethal.' There were attacks. He defended himself."
Ron lowered his fork by one reluctant inch. "And got docked for it! That's the point, isn't it? Judges saw how he did it. That should be a disqualification. Imagine if I'd hexed a merperson—"
"No one can," said Seamus, earning himself a look from Hermione.
Harry had the Prophet open in front of him, but his eyes weren't moving. The headline sat on his plate like a second breakfast he had no appetite for. In his ear,s the lake still breathed; in his chest, the cold hadn't thawed. Alden's pale face underwater, cutting the binds with that precise, frightening efficiency — that he could admire. It was the expression — not joy, not fear; a stillness Harry didn't know how to name — that had kept him awake.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice gentled. "You're quiet."
He swallowed. "I don't think he… I mean, he went for Theo first. He didn't even— he didn't look at me."
"Exactly!" Ron pounced. "Because he doesn't care. It's all calculation with him. He's been like that since the term started. Who chooses to be like that? He's dark, Harry. Admit it. The whole house knows it. Look at them—"
He jerked his chin toward Slytherin. Draco had raised his cup in a toast to nothing in particular, and the nearer end of the table had obliged with a polite patter of spoons. A couple of second-years had produced a banner from somewhere — green silk with a serpent that seemed to breathe when the draught touched it. DREYSE WILL WIN drifted above their heads in charm-lit letters. The words did not congratulate. They promised.
Hermione's gaze snagged on the banner and then slid to the Head Table. Dumbledore's eyes were on the hall, not his plate. The little measuring twinkle that usually softened them had gone unreadable. Beside him, Snape poured something the colour of smoke into his tea and did not drink it.
"Headmaster won't expel him," Hermione said, with that fair, stubborn certainty that had anchored them since first year. "He won't. He believes—" She stopped, frowning. Believes what? In second chances? In boys who made the wrong kind of right choice?
Ron leaned in. "Why not? If anyone else had—"
"Because he's a champion," Harry said, and heard how weak that sounded. He tried again. "Because he saved someone. Because—"
Because the water made everything strange; because the way Alden moved in it had been both alien and exactly what you'd want if you were drowning; because Harry didn't care to discover that good could wear a colder face than he wanted it to.
"I'm going to ask him," he said suddenly, surprising himself. "Dumbledore. I'm going to ask him what he thinks Alden really is."
Ron gaped. "Ask— ask Dumbledore? You can't—"
"Why not?" Hermione said, swiftly, grateful for the practical task. "He likes it when people ask better questions. And Harry's got the right to, doesn't he? They're tied." She lifted the Prophet and winced at the headline. "And the paper isn't helping."
Back at Slytherin, Draco's display was gathering heat.
"—Potter bailed out," he declared to general satisfaction. "Dreyse would have had it by six minutes if not for that lot under the water whining about hurt feelings."
"Gills," Theo said mildly, "not feelings."
"Gills can have feelings," Tracey offered. "Can merpeople cry underwater, or does it just… mix?"
Pansy blinked at her. "Tracey, darling."
Alden set his cup down carefully. "Enough."
He did not raise his voice — he never needed to. The single word fell into the conversation like a coin into a well, and the ripples took the heat out of Draco's grin. Draco shrugged, unconcerned in theory if not in practice, and swivelled to torment a third-year about his tie.
Theo angled his profile toward Alden, speaking low. "It isn't your job to parent the House, you know."
"I'm not parenting," Alden said. "I'm tired."
He could feel the tide of opinion in the hall the way he felt the sway of wind against a ward — pressure, direction, intent. Cheers had always bored him. Boos were only cheers from the wrong angle. What he couldn't yet file away was the strange knot in his chest every time someone said friend and meant Theo, and someone else said dark and meant him, and both were true in the mouths that spoke them.
Daphne tore a croissant in half, the flake-fall neat as parchment ash. "They will decide for you, if you let them," she said. "What you are."
"And if I don't?" he asked, more to the tea steam than to her.
"Then they'll call you that anyway," Theo said, with a little smile, "and you'll go on being inconveniently yourself."
"Comforting," Alden murmured.
"Deeply," Theo agreed.
At the Head Table, Snape's gaze slid to him; something like approval (barbed, private) and something like warning (older than the hall) rested in it. Alden held the look and let it fall. Across the same span of space, Moody's magical eye swivelled like a compass seeking true north and lodged in his direction. Even at this distance, he could feel the man's attention like rough cloth.
The Prophet rustled again at Gryffindor as Colin Creevey read out a passage for anyone who had the misfortune to be near: "—sources within the staff suggest concern over certain unorthodox techniques—"
Hermione took the paper out of his hands. "Read quietly or put it away," she said, not unkindly. "Some of us are trying to pretend it's a school morning."
"It isn't," Harry said, almost to himself. He wasn't sure whether he meant school or morning.
When the meal began to unravel — benches scraping, owls skimming the high air like thoughts one didn't admit to — Alden rose. The cup left a damp ring on the table, the exact shape of a sigil he hadn't meant to draw. He didn't break it with his sleeve. He let it sit there, evaporating by degrees.
On their way out they passed the end of the Gryffindor table. Ron's gaze snagged on him with the eager malice of someone who had finally found a word for his dislike; Hermione's slid over Alden's face and away, as if to prove to herself she wasn't staring; Harry met his eyes and held them a beat too long.
Alden's expression didn't change. He had learned very young that stillness, properly used, was a kind of armour. He inclined his head, a fractional courtesy, not quite a bow, and moved on.
In the arch of the doors, the February air came up from the stone like a kept promise. The hall exhaled behind him, and its breath touched his neck — cool, familiar. The banners cracked once and lay. Somewhere above, barely audible under the thinning voices, a page turned. It might have been the Prophet. It might have been the castle.
The cold did not lift. It settled in, quiet and exacting, as if it belonged.
The week resumed as if nothing extraordinary had happened — which, in Hogwarts terms, meant everything was different beneath the surface. Snow still clung to the window ledges like memory; the lake had thawed, but the air had not forgiven the cold yet.
Alden walked the corridors with his satchel slung across one shoulder, the same quiet rhythm in his stride that unnerved more people than any hex could. The whispers trailed behind him like frost-mist.
" That's him— "" The one who attacked them— "" Fastest under the water, wasn't he? They say he didn't even run out of breath. "
He didn't look back. He never did.
In Transfiguration, McGonagall's voice was its usual blade of composure, but even she hesitated, fractionally, before calling his name. He transfigured the candelabra into a serpent of living brass in half the time it took anyone else. The creature coiled obediently, gleaming, before dissolving into sparks at his nod.
" Ten points to Slytherin, " McGonagall said. Her tone was even, but her eyes lingered a second too long — as though she was searching for something in his face and didn't quite find it.
At the back of the room, the Gryffindors sat in an uneasy quiet. Ron muttered to Harry, not softly enough, " Bet he'd transfigure you if you blinked wrong. "
Hermione didn't look up from her notes. " He's advanced, that's all. "
Ron gave a disbelieving snort. " That's one word for it. "
When class ended, Alden packed his books with the same meticulous economy he did everything. The other Houses gave him space as if he carried contagion. A first-year Ravenclaw dropped a quill when he passed; a Hufflepuff whispered an apology to no one.
Theo waited by the door, balancing his satchel on his shoulder. " You realise you terrify people just by existing? "
Alden didn't answer immediately. " Terrify or remind? "
Theo arched a brow. " That's the kind of line that makes the latter answer itself. "
A faint, reluctant smile curved Alden's mouth. " I'll work on that. "
They stepped into the corridor, where the castle light had turned brittle — pale winter rays cutting through dust like silver knives. Daphne was waiting by the stairwell, parchment tucked beneath one arm. She didn't speak, just fell into step beside them, the movement so natural it didn't need invitation.
" Snape wants your essay before dinner, " she said. " And he asked if you could see him after. "
Alden hummed lowly. " He's nothing if not consistent. "
Theo grinned. " Translation: you've done something interesting again. "
They turned down the hall toward the dungeons, their voices falling into low conversation, the kind that had rhythm without weight. Behind them, laughter erupted — someone making a joke too loud, too pointed. Alden didn't turn. He didn't need to. The echo said enough.
Harry had told Hermione he was fine, and told Ron to drop it, but the thought had been pacing the back of his skull all day like a restless ghost. Ask Dumbledore. It wasn't anger anymore. It was that cold, puzzled curiosity that came when fear started to blur with fascination.
He waited until the last bell, when the corridors had thinned to the usual dusk shuffle of robes and parchment. The moving staircases sighed underfoot. The torches had begun to hum with the evening.
He found himself at the base of the spiral stair that led to the headmaster's office before he quite decided how he'd gotten there.
Ron caught up, breathless, expression torn between loyalty and sense. " You're actually going to? Harry, you can't just walk in and— "
" He said I could come to him any time. "
"That's for, I dunno, normal things. Not— not asking if one of the champions is the next Voldemort!" Ron's whisper cracked upward on the name.
Harry hesitated. " I'm not saying that. I just want to understand him. "
Hermione arrived moments later, library dust on her sleeves. " You're both loud enough to wake the portraits, " she said, catching her breath. " If you're going, go. It's not illegal to ask questions."
Ron looked at her like she'd betrayed some unspoken Gryffindor pact. " You want him to go too? "
She folded her arms. " I want him to stop wondering. That's worse than knowing. "
The gargoyle guarding the entrance lifted its stone head as they approached.
" Password? " it asked, voice like gravel sliding in a tidepool.
Harry paused. He'd expected to have to guess, but before he could open his mouth, the statue twisted aside of its own accord, grinding open the spiral stair.
" He's expecting you, " Hermione murmured, almost to herself.
The words didn't reassure him. They made the air heavier.
Ron muttered, " See? He probably knows why you're here. Blimey, he always knows. "
Harry climbed anyway. The steps moved underfoot like a slow clock. The higher he went, the quieter the castle became — voices thinning, torches softening into amber haze. When he reached the top, the oaken door stood open, light spilling across the threshold in gold threads.
Dumbledore was already standing at the far side of the office, back to the door, looking out the high window toward the distant shimmer of the lake. His hands were clasped behind him.
" Good evening, Harry, " he said without turning. " I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. "
The old man's voice was calm, patient, yet it carried the faintest trace of weariness — the kind that came from having seen too many questions begin the same way.
Harry stood in the doorway, pulse loud in his ears. " You knew I'd come? "
"I suspected curiosity would find you, sooner or later. It always does."
He turned then, eyes bright but shadowed at the edges. " Tell me, what troubles you most — what Alden did, or what he didn't?"
Harry couldn't answer straight away. The silence pressed like snowfall. He realised, with a small, sharp discomfort, that he didn't know which one frightened him more.
The office always felt alive. Even now, with dusk pooling in its corners, every surface seemed to breathe — the faint tick of brass instruments, the slow turning of a star chart above the hearth, the soft rustle of pages in the windless air. Fawkes drowsed on his perch, plumage catching fire in the lamplight, and Dumbledore, standing beside the window, might have been a figure carved from the same patience as the stone around him.
Harry hesitated before speaking. The words had felt certain all the way up the stairs. Now they seemed smaller in the gold light. "Professor," he began, "I wanted to ask about Alden Dreyse."
Dumbledore didn't turn. "So many people do, these days."
Harry shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. "It's just… people say things. Some of them think he's the next—well, you know. They think he's dangerous."
At that, Dumbledore turned. His expression held neither amusement nor alarm—only the kind of tired kindness Harry had come to associate with truth he might not like."The next Dark Lord," he said quietly. "Yes, I've heard the whispers. They are very old whispers, Harry, merely changing the name at the end of each century."
"But they can't all be wrong," Harry said quickly. "He's… different. The spells he uses—no one's ever seen them. He's ahead of everyone, even the professors say it. And what he's done in the Tournament—" He stopped himself, counting them off in his head. "He—he beheaded the dragon. Attacked the merfolk. Finished the lake task in ten minutes. That's not normal."
"Neither," Dumbledore said gently, "is entering a tournament one did not sign up for, yet here we are."
Harry flushed. "That's not the same. I didn't choose this."
"And you believe Alden did?"
Harry frowned. "Didn't he?"
Dumbledore moved toward the desk, his robe whispering against the carpet. He gestured for Harry to sit, then took his own chair with the deliberate calm of a man lowering himself into memory."I will tell you something about Hogwarts," he said. "This castle has seen a thousand years of children come through its doors. It has watched laughter turn to ambition, ambition to cruelty, cruelty back to remorse. Every kind of witch and wizard has walked these halls—brilliant, flawed, kind, selfish, courageous, fearful. If we closed our gates to anyone who might one day lean toward darkness, the place would be a very quiet ruin indeed."
Harry looked down at his hands. "So you do think he's dark."
"I think," Dumbledore said, "that darkness is not a destination but a direction. And directions can change."
He reached across the desk for a thin parchment, half-covered in notes. "Alden Dreyse," he said, as though reading from memory rather than the page, "descendant of a long line of scholars, duelists, and philosophers. A family both admired and… misread. His magic is singular, yes. But singularity is not in itself corruption."
Harry frowned. "Then what's he trying to do? Why study spells that nobody else uses? Some of them—they don't even look right when he casts them."
Dumbledore smiled, faint and rueful. "He views magic the way an astronomer views the night sky: not as good or evil, but as pattern and possibility. Most of us learn boundaries before we learn freedom. Alden has, I think, learned freedom first. He is trying to understand the root of things. What you see as danger, he sees as… a question."
The words hung in the air, too soft for comfort. Harry's voice dropped. "You give him a lot of leeway."
"Leeway," Dumbledore said, "or trust?"
"Maybe both. People talk about how you let him experiment, how Snape lets him try things that aren't even in books anymore. You didn't punish him for breaking the age line. You didn't punish him for what he did under the lake."
"I spoke to him about both." Dumbledore's eyes glinted like the lake's surface before dawn. "But punishment and understanding are not always the same instrument. You would not have thanked me, I think, if I had punished you for every rule you have broken."
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. Fair point.
Dumbledore folded his hands atop the desk. "He is a complicated boy. There is great pride in him, yes, and a mind too sharp to sit still. He follows certain philosophies… old ones. He reads the writings of two men who shaped the modern understanding of magical intent."
He paused, as if weighing whether to say their names. He didn't."Men who believed magic itself was neither benevolent nor corrupt—merely obedient to will. Alden's family traces its roots to one of them. It makes his curiosity both a heritage and a danger."
Harry leaned forward, brow furrowed. "If he really believes that… that magic isn't good or bad, just the wizard using it—what happens if he decides that he always knows best?"
"Then he will fall," Dumbledore said softly. "As many before him have. But perhaps not yet."
The lamplight shifted. Dust danced in it like gold ash. Harry said, "If it ever came to it—if I had to fight him—I'd lose, wouldn't I?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. When he did, his tone was almost kind."Against skill? Perhaps. Against certainty? Certainly."
Harry swallowed. "So what do I do?"
"You do what he cannot," Dumbledore said. "You doubt yourself. You question. That is your shield. He is a boy who will always do what he believes is right, regardless of who stands in the way. That is a strength until it is not."
Fawkes shifted on his perch, feathers whispering. The fire crackled in a low, steady rhythm.
Harry looked toward the window where the lake glimmered faintly in the dark. "He scares me," he admitted. "But not because he's cruel. Because he's… calm. Like nothing anyone says matters."
Dumbledore's eyes softened, almost sad. "Calm can be armour, Harry. The kind worn by those who learned early that the world would mistake silence for safety."
He rose, coming around the desk to rest a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Alden Dreyse is still a student, not a prophecy. If we start treating him as anything else, we will make the very thing we fear."
Harry nodded slowly, though the unease didn't leave him. It followed him as he left the office, down the spiral stairs that wound into shadow.
Behind him, the old door closed on its hinges with the quiet finality of a secret that wasn't finished being told.
The spiral stair carried Harry down in slow turns, the stone groaning faintly beneath his shoes. The air cooled as he descended; the warmth of Dumbledore's office — all gold lamplight and quiet wisdom — thinned into the usual castle chill. By the time he stepped into the corridor, it was near curfew, the torches guttering low and blue along the walls.
Hermione and Ron were waiting at the bottom, half in the shadows, half in impatience.
"Well?" Ron demanded before Harry had reached them. "What did he say? Don't just stand there looking all mysterious—come on, out with it."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking between them. "He said… he said Alden's not what people think."
Hermione tilted her head. "Meaning?"
"Meaning he's not dark. Or—" Harry faltered. "Not yet. Dumbledore says Hogwarts isn't here to stop people like him; it's here to guide them. That everyone's got the same chance, even if they're different."
"Different?" Ron's voice jumped, sharp with disbelief. "Harry, he's not different, he's mad. He chopped a dragon's head off and attacked merpeople! How's that guiding anything? That's— that's psychotic!"
Hermione sighed, clutching her books tighter to her chest as they started walking. "You don't know that it was unprovoked, Ron. The merfolk did attack him—"
"They attacked all the champions!" Ron snapped. "He's the only one who decided the answer was to nearly drown them!"
Harry walked in silence beside them, gaze fixed on the dark stretch of corridor ahead. "Dumbledore said he doesn't see magic like that. Not good or bad. Just… what you do with it. He makes his own spells. Variants. New ways of casting things."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "He designs his own spells? That's— that's practically unheard of for a student."
"Yeah," Ron muttered, "and probably illegal too."
Harry glanced at them both. "Dumbledore said he's trying to understand magic, not control it."
"Sounds like the sort of thing people say right before they try to control it," Ron said. "You wait. He's just another You-Know-Who waiting to happen. Everyone in Slytherin's cheering him like he already is."
They'd reached the portrait hole when the air shifted — a drawling voice cutting through the corridor like a blade dipped in honey.
"Well, well. The Golden Trio enlightening the world again."
Draco Malfoy stepped from behind a pillar, arms crossed, the silver trim of his robes catching torchlight. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, thick and silent, but Draco didn't need an audience. He was his own.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Ron said. "Run out of mirrors to talk to?"
Draco smirked. "Just thought I'd stop and listen to the sound of mediocrity echoing off the walls. Fascinating, really. Potter and his two shadows are discussing things far above their comprehension."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "We were talking, not inviting commentary from the peanut gallery."
"Oh, I don't remember asking the Mudblood to speak," Draco said smoothly. The word slid out like a blade from its sheath, deliberate, practiced.
Ron's ears went red. "Watch your mouth, Malfoy—"
"Or what?" Draco sneered. "You'll throw another slug at me? Please. You couldn't duel your way out of a wet paper bag. None of you could. You don't even belong in the same conversation as Dreyse."
Harry's jaw tightened. "You mean your friend who thinks rules are optional and everyone else is an idiot?"
Draco laughed — sharp, clean, proud. "You'd do well to remember he's winning, Potter. You tied with him only because he allowed it. He could've finished that task in half the time if he hadn't been so sentimental."
"Sentimental?" Hermione repeated, incredulous. "He attacked the merfolk!"
"He won," Draco snapped. "And he saved his friend. Something you might want to take notes on."
Ron stepped forward, fists balled. "You really think he's some kind of hero?"
"I think," Draco said, taking a deliberate step closer, "that he's better than any of you could ever hope to be. Smarter than you, stronger than you, and not wasting his time pretending to be something he's not. He doesn't play at being noble—he is something real. And that's what frightens you."
Hermione's voice was low, shaking with contained fury. "You mean that he frightens you too, and you're too blind to see it."
Draco's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You wouldn't understand. None of you could. You talk about courage and friendship like they mean something, but you've never stood beside someone like Alden Dreyse. He doesn't need banners or applause. He's the kind of wizard who makes history while the rest of you watch from the stands."
The insult hit harder than he probably intended; Harry saw it in the flicker that crossed Draco's expression — pride tangled with something almost reverent.
Ron growled, "You're delusional, Malfoy. That snake's not making history, he's rewriting what it means to be a danger!"
Before Draco could fire back, a quiet voice cut through the corridor behind him.
"Interesting metric for danger, coming from someone who spends every year breaking school rules for sport."
Draco turned, his expression changing instantly — the sharp lines of arrogance softening into something like respect.
Alden stood at the far end of the hallway, Theo Nott beside him, both of them still in their school robes, shadows thrown long by the torchlight. Alden's silver hair caught the flame and dulled it; his eyes, green-grey, looked almost metallic in the half-dark.
"Dreyse," Draco said, relief lacing his voice. "You won't believe what these idiots were saying—"
Alden didn't look at him. His gaze rested on Harry, unreadable. The space between them hummed with a strange stillness, like air before thunder.
Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him, Hermione's breath catch.
Theo's expression was neutral, but his eyes flicked between them, calculating. "Are we interrupting a house meeting," he asked mildly, "or a brawl?"
"No meeting," Alden said quietly. "At least, not yet."
The torches along the corridor fluttered once, throwing his shadow long across the stones — narrow, poised, almost regal.
For a heartbeat, none of them moved. The castle seemed to lean in, waiting.
Draco straightened the moment Alden spoke, his pride collapsing into that half-obedient stiffness he reserved only for him. "They were running their mouths, Alden. Thought you'd want to hear—"
"I told you before," Alden said, his voice soft but sharp enough to still the corridor, "it's not worth it."
Draco blinked, thrown off. "But—"
"You're better than that." Alden's tone didn't rise, but it landed heavy. "If they need to shout to make themselves feel taller, let them. You don't have to stoop to measure it."
Draco looked away, jaw tightening. A quiet flush climbed his neck.
Ron gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Oh, look at this. The Dark Prince teaches manners. That's rich."
Theo's gaze flicked lazily toward him. "And yet you're still talking."
Ron bristled. "I'm not scared of you lot."
"No," Alden said, and the stillness that came with it was almost polite. "You're not scared enough."
Ron's face reddened. "Everyone knows what you are. You're dark. You can pretend to be calm all you like, but we've seen what you do."
Alden's expression didn't shift. "So?"
The single word hit the air like a pebble into deep water — small, but the ripples spread far.
Ron's jaw moved soundlessly for a moment. "So—so someone will stop you. Dumbledore will—"
"Dumbledore?" Alden's voice was mild, curious, as though tasting the name. "The same man you ran to after every problem you couldn't solve yourself?"
"That's not—"
"I wonder," Alden continued, "does he think I'm dark? Or is that what you need him to say so you can stop thinking for yourself?"
Harry took a step forward before he meant to. "He thinks you're dangerous."
"Then he's honest," Alden said. "So am I."
That answer silenced even the torches for a moment.
Hermione drew herself up, eyes bright with anger. "You can't just talk like you're above everyone—"
"But you three do," Alden said. "Constantly. Every year, you break half the school's rules, risk lives, tamper with things you don't understand, and call it bravery. Now someone else does something outside your understanding, and suddenly it's wrong?"
Theo's lips twitched; Draco's smirk threatened to return.
Alden went on, each word precise. "You've spent years doing what you thought was right and expecting everyone to applaud it. I've done the same, but without needing applause. The only difference is that your rule-breaking fits the story people like to hear."
Hermione flushed. "You don't get to compare—"
"I'm not comparing," Alden interrupted softly. "I'm clarifying." He turned his gaze on each of them in turn. "You," he said to Ron, "spend half your life jealous of your friend and the other half pretending you aren't. You fight monsters outside the castle but never the ones inside your own head."
Ron went rigid.
"You," to Hermione now, "quote the rulebook like scripture, but you only follow it when it doesn't inconvenience you or your friends. You enforce order until it asks you for a sacrifice."
Hermione's breath caught; her knuckles whitened around the strap of her bag.
Finally, his eyes settled on Harry. "And you. You didn't want to enter this tournament, and yet you're here. You've learned, already, how little wanting has to do with what must be done. You know what it feels like to carry something that isn't yours to carry. For that, I don't judge you."
Harry's throat felt dry. "You talk like you're above everyone. Like you know how all this ends."
"No," Alden said quietly. "Just what it costs."
The words settled into the corridor, heavier than shouting.
Students had begun to gather — a loose ring of faces peering from doorways, drawn by the sound and the strange, low gravity in Alden's voice. A few Slytherins had drifted closer behind Draco; a couple of Ravenclaws lingered at the edges, whispering.
Theo leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching with the faint amusement of someone seeing history repeat itself.
Ron found his voice again, forced and brittle. "You think you're so clever, but when the professors find out about the things you're doing—"
"They already know," Alden said. "And I'm still here."
That simple statement broke something in the crowd — a sharp intake of breath, a hissed whisper, the crackle of tension shifting sides.
Draco looked around, chin high. "Told you," he said to no one in particular. "He's beyond you lot."
Hermione's temper flared. "Arrogance isn't brilliance, Malfoy."
"No," Alden said, almost absently. "But confusion often sounds like outrage, doesn't it?"
The corridor fell into a brittle silence. Even the torches seemed to burn lower. For a heartbeat, Harry thought he saw something in Alden's eyes — not malice, not pride, but the calm certainty of someone who had already measured the distance between himself and everyone else in the room.
Then a familiar voice cut through the air, dark and exacting.
"Mr. Dreyse."
Snape's silhouette appeared at the far end of the hall, robes trailing like a shadow. His expression was unreadable, but the way the crowd parted before him suggested no one wanted to test its meaning.
Alden turned, every trace of challenge leaving his posture. "Professor."
"You will come with me."
No anger, no explanation — just the quiet authority that filled every corner of the sentence.
Alden nodded once, the movement clean as punctuation. He spared the trio a final look — not threat, not dismissal, only a cold kind of acknowledgment — and then started down the corridor beside Snape. Theo fell into step behind him, silent as always.
As they disappeared into the dark curve of the dungeon stairs, the gathered students began to disperse, murmuring like a tide retreating.
Hermione was the first to speak, her voice low and shaken. "He didn't even raise his voice."
Ron muttered something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Harry said nothing. He was still watching the spot where Alden had stood, as if the air itself might still remember the weight of him.
The dungeon corridors were quiet at this hour — the kind of quiet that carried its own gravity. Torches hissed low along the walls, spilling thin gold light that couldn't quite warm the stone. The faint echo of three sets of footsteps filled the hall: Alden's measured, Snape's deliberate, Theo's a careful half-beat behind.
They walked for a while without speaking. The silence between them wasn't awkward — it was the kind that waited, deliberate as breath drawn before a verdict.
Snape finally spoke, voice smooth as oil and just as sharp."Do you intend to explain," he said, "why half the castle is whispering your name in the same sentence as 'duel' and 'detention'?"
Alden's tone was level. "They were talking. I corrected them."
"Of course you did," Snape murmured, the faintest bite of irony gliding under the words. "And I suppose the gathered audience of thirty students was a coincidence."
Theo coughed lightly behind them, wisely silent otherwise.
Alden's gaze didn't waver. "I didn't invite them. They came to listen."
"Ah," Snape said, almost to himself. "And you spoke, knowing they would repeat every word before the hour was out."
He stopped then, turning with a sweep of his robes that caught the firelight like a spill of ink. "You are not being scolded," he said, as if reading the defiance in Alden's stillness. "But you will understand this: every word you speak, every spell you cast, adds to a story the school has already chosen to tell about you. You are not writing the narrative anymore. You are its subject."
Alden met his gaze, calm as ever. "The story that I'm dark?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed low, careful. "Yes." He let the word linger, then added, "And no."
He took a step closer, shadows shifting over his face. "I have spent enough time with you to know that you are not—" a slight pause "—like him." The word him carried years of bitterness, unspoken names behind it. "You ask questions you should not. You explore edges most would never approach. But you do so to understand, not to dominate."
Alden's jaw tightened slightly. "And yet they'll never see the difference."
"No," Snape said simply. "They won't. Potter and his loyal chorus have the luxury of narrative. They are reckless, yet adored. You are composed, and so they fear you. The world forgives what it finds charming. It never forgives what it doesn't understand."
Theo's voice broke the quiet, quiet but edged with that dry humor that kept the air from freezing entirely. "So what you're saying, Professor, is he's doomed no matter what he does."
Snape glanced over his shoulder, lip curling. "Mr. Nott, if I required your insight, I would have asked for it. Kindly remain decorative."
Theo grinned faintly, unoffended. "As you wish."
Snape turned back to Alden. "You've made it worse for yourself tonight. Whatever patience the other Houses had left will erode by morning. Half the school will see arrogance, the other half danger. And those are not allies you want on the eve of a task designed to maim or kill."
Alden looked away, watching the torchlight flicker against the damp wall. "I'll win."
It wasn't arrogance — not quite. It was said the way one might state a law of nature: quietly, inevitably.
Snape studied him for a long moment, the lines of his face softening almost imperceptibly. "You may," he said at last. "But victory and survival are not always the same thing."
"I know."
Snape's gaze lingered. "Do you?"
Alden's silence was answer enough.
They resumed walking. The air grew cooler as they descended toward the lower corridor that led to Snape's office. Somewhere above, water dripped from the ceiling in a steady rhythm — slow, patient, counting time.
When Snape spoke again, his tone had shifted — less reprimand, more warning delivered in confidence. "I do not know what form the third task will take," he said. "But I know its reputation. It has taken lives, and not by accident. Each year, the final challenge is meant to separate talent from tenacity, intellect from instinct. It will not be kind."
Alden nodded. "Nothing worth winning ever is."
Snape exhaled through his nose — not quite approval, not quite disapproval. "That is precisely what concerns me." He reached the door to his office, hand lingering on the iron handle. "You speak like someone who's already made peace with losing something."
Alden's voice was almost too quiet to catch. "Maybe I have."
Snape's eyes flicked toward him — the faintest trace of recognition, something old and unhealed crossing his expression before he shuttered it again. "Be careful which ghosts you try to understand," he said. "They have a habit of understanding you back."
Theo glanced between them, unease masked under nonchalance. "That sounded ominous enough for bedtime."
Snape ignored him, pushing the door open. The familiar scent of potion ingredients drifted out: smoke, crushed roots, and the faint metallic tang of brewing silver solution. He gestured inside.
"You will need to focus, Dreyse," he said. "Study. Rest. Prepare. Whatever theatrics transpired tonight — leave them to the gossip. The maze will not care what the crowd thinks of you."
Alden stepped into the office, shadows swallowing him for a moment. "Understood."
Snape's expression softened by degrees, just enough to be human. "I expect you to win," he said. "Not for glory. For control."
Alden turned slightly, a rare spark of something like respect crossing his face. "Then I'll make sure you're not disappointed."
Snape's reply came after a heartbeat, low and certain. "You haven't yet."
Theo smirked, following them in. "Merlin helps us all when he starts trying."
The door shut behind them, leaving the corridor empty again — only the faint echo of their voices fading into the dungeon's quiet. The torches burned low, their flames thin and silver, like the breath of the lake returned to stone.
The gossip spread like frost—quiet at first, then everywhere. By the week's end, Hogwarts hummed with stories no one could verify, and everyone wanted to believe. Each retelling carried a new edge: that Alden Dreyse had cursed a prefect for speaking his name wrong, that the merfolk he'd "attacked" still hadn't resurfaced, that Dumbledore kept him in the tournament only because of some ancient family debt.
No one could agree on the truth, but truth had stopped being the point.
Even the portraits gossiped when they thought no one was listening.
In the Great Hall, conversations lowered when Alden entered. In corridors, students turned away too quickly or stared a second too long . Once, a Ravenclaw whispered "monster" as he passed, and his only response was to adjust the strap of his satchel as if he hadn't heard.
Draco took it personally. By Tuesday, he'd hexed two Hufflepuffs and shouted down a group of fifth-year Gryffindors until McGonagall deducted thirty points and warned him she'd start taking it from Slytherin's Quidditch record next time. Tracey and Pansy did their own kind of damage control—sharper, quieter. Pansy glared like a curse; Tracey intercepted rumors before they spread too far, whispering in corners, controlling the temperature of conversations.
Daphne didn't waste words. When she heard one fourth-year mutter that Alden was "the heir of darkness or something like it," she turned, perfectly calm, and said, "Then he's inherited more intelligence than you."The boy avoided her for the rest of the term.
Alden remained untouched by it all—or seemed to. He moved through the corridors like a tide, unbothered, eyes always a step ahead of wherever he was going.
If he noticed the whispers, he gave no sign.
His focus narrowed. Evenings were spent in the quiet corner of the library, the one behind the potions shelves where dust softened the sound of turning pages. His black leather journal—spine cracked, corners worn—lay open before him, pages webbed with inked diagrams: circles of runes, sketched spellforms, notes in small, neat handwriting.
Between lines of calculation, he'd written stray thoughts in the margin: Magic obeys the mind before the wand. Light and dark are conditions, not qualities. If it can be shaped, it can be understood.
He filled a page, then another. Each mark of his quill was a small act of defiance, a kind of silence that spoke louder than argument.
Theo found him there one evening, leaning against a shelf, watching him work. The firelight from a distant torch brushed Alden's silver hair, turning it faintly gold.
"You're aware," Theo said eventually, "that half the school thinks you're one spell away from declaring war on humanity?"
Alden didn't look up. "Half the school's always thought that."
Theo smirked. "True. But now they're organized about it."
Alden turned a page. "It doesn't matter."
"That's a convenient philosophy."
"It's a choice," Alden said. "They'll talk no matter what I do. So I may as well do something worth talking about."
Theo folded his arms. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"So I've been told."
The conversation dissolved into comfortable quiet. Quill on parchment. The slow whisper of the castle breathing through its stones.
When Theo finally drifted off toward curfew, Alden remained. He reached into his bag and drew out the small green journal bound in cracked leather—the one he'd inherited, in secret, from his family's vault. Mathius Dreyse: Private Treatise on Intent and Magical Law.
He opened it where he'd left off. The script was narrow, elegant, and centuries old. The ink had long since turned the color of dried blood.
There are no good spells, nor evil ones. Only intentions misnamed by history.
He read the line again, then a third time, letting it root deeper.
Mathius had written of balance—of casting as a mirror for the soul. Every spell is the mind, externalized. Every curse is clarity misused.
Alden traced the faded ink with a finger. He thought of the lake—the weightless silence, Theo's body bound in those ghostly ropes, his own hand cutting through water like a blade. He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't thought of right or wrong, onlythat Theo must breathe.
And the moment he had acted without question, the world above had called him dangerous.
Maybe it was easier for them that way. It made them feel safe, calling him names from the shore.
He understood now, more than before, what Mathius meant. Magic was neither moral nor merciful. It was obedient. And if the world wanted to divide it into light and dark, then perhaps that said more about the world than it did about him.
He closed the journal slowly, fingers resting on its worn cover.
Through the high window, moonlight painted a cold silver line across his desk. The castle slept, and its stillness felt almost complicit.
Alden leaned back in his chair, eyes unfocused, thoughts moving like water under ice. No matter what he did—save a friend, win a task, study in silence—the narrative would keep rewriting itself.
To them, he'd always be something to fear. To himself, he'd always be something to understand.
The difference didn't matter anymore.
He picked up his quill again. Ink bled across the page in dark veins, forming a new set of runes—an experiment for a spell he didn't have a name for yet.
Outside, the wind sighed against the stone. Inside, the tip of his quill whispered on parchment, steady, precise, and tireless.
In the silence of the dungeons, Alden Dreyse kept writing, as if knowledge itself might one day drown out the noise.
The next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson began in the same brittle air it always did. The desks were set in two uneven rows—Gryffindor on the left, Slytherin on the right—as if even the furniture knew to keep its distance. Candles burned low, dripping wax down their spines like melted vertebrae.
Professor Moody limped to the front of the room, his wooden leg striking stone in slow, deliberate rhythm. His magical eye spun once, fixing briefly on Alden before twitching back toward the rest of the class.
"Today," he said, voice scraping like gravel against a wall, "we learn how not to die stupidly."
A few students shifted uneasily; a Hufflepuff let out a nervous laugh before remembering he wasn't supposed to.
Moody slammed his wand against the blackboard. The word appeared in harsh white script:
HEX DEFLECTION — Principle of Anticipation.
"Now," Moody growled, "most of you think defence means reacting. Wrong. By the time you react, you're already dead. Defence is about intention. Seeing before it happens. Knowing the pattern, the angle, the hesitation that gives your attacker away."
He prowled down the line of desks, wand tip dragging sparks across the stone floor."Some of you—" his magical eye flicked toward Alden "—think you've already mastered that."
Slytherins stiffened instinctively; Gryffindors leaned forward like spectators promised a show.
Alden didn't look up from his notes. "If the intention is obvious," he said calmly, "then it's not mastery. It's routine."
Moody's real eye narrowed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Alden said, closing his journal with a soft thud, "you can't defend against intent you don't expect. Predictable attacks make predictable defenders."
The words landed like a pebble in still water—quiet, but every ripple loud.
Moody's grin was all teeth. "You fancy yourself unpredictable, then?"
"I fancy myself prepared," Alden replied.
Theo muttered under his breath, "Here we go again," earning a sharp nudge from Draco, who was trying and failing to suppress a smirk.
Moody turned toward the room. "Pair up! Let's see if theory keeps you breathing. You'll alternate: one casting, one deflecting. Simple hexes, nothing lethal… yet."
Wands scraped against desks as partners found each other. The tension in the air thickened—the kind that comes before lightning.
"Potter, you're with Finnigan," Moody barked. "Nott, take Zabini. Dreyse…" The pause stretched. "With me."
The class froze.
Draco made a sound halfway between protest and awe. "You can't be serious—"
"I'm always serious," Moody growled. "Especially when I shouldn't be."
Alden rose, movements slow and deliberate. His chair didn't scrape the floor. He stepped into the open space at the front of the classroom, expression unreadable.
"Wands ready," Moody said, lips curling. "Let's see if you're as good as you think."
Alden inclined his head, wand loose in his grip. "Whenever you're ready, Professor."
The first curse came fast—a crimson streak that cut the air with a hiss. Alden's wand moved once, barely perceptible, and the bolt dissolved inches from his shoulder into a harmless shimmer of sparks.
A murmur ran through the class. Moody's grin only widened.
"Not bad," he said. "Let's make it interesting."
He flicked his wand again. This time, three spells in quick succession—Blasting, Impediment, and a silent hex Harry didn't recognize. Alden shifted once, twice, each motion precise as calligraphy. The air around him rippled faintly, distorting light—some kind of barrier, thin as breath. The curses struck and evaporated.
"Is that—" Hermione whispered to Harry, wide-eyed, "—a custom shield?"
"I think he made it," Harry whispered back.
"Arrogant show-off," Ron muttered. "Probably going to hex the professor next."
Moody's voice cut through. "You're defending well, boy. But what happens when the defence isn't enough?"
He fired again, the hex faster, darker. Alden's barrier caught it—but the force made him slide half a step backward. He straightened, eyes calm.
"Then you learn faster," Alden said.
Moody laughed, harsh and genuine. "Fast learning's how you survive. But it won't save you if your opponent doesn't play fair. You ever face someone who wants you dead, Dreyse?"
Alden's reply came after a heartbeat. "Yes."
Something flickered in the air—surprise, maybe, or disbelief.
Moody studied him with that whirling, unnatural eye. "And did you kill them?"
Alden's gaze didn't move. "I stopped them. The rest is semantics."
The words hit Moody like a challenge. He lowered his wand slightly, voice dropping. "You call that defence?"
"I call it efficiency."
A tense silence filled the room. The torches along the walls hissed louder, their flames bending as if to listen.
"You sound like the kind of wizard who mistakes control for power," Moody said.
"And you," Alden replied evenly, "sound like the kind who confuses fear for strength."
The class collectively inhaled. Draco looked delighted; Theo muttered, "Oh, Merlin," under his breath.
Moody stepped closer, his magical eye spinning like a storm. "Careful, Dreyse. The world's full of dark wizards who thought just like you."
Alden's voice was quiet, almost soft. "And Aurors who became them, trying to stop them."
That landed. For a second, the only sound was the faint hum of torches.
Then Moody straightened, expression unreadable. "Ten points from Slytherin," he said, the words clipped. "For arrogance. Take your seat."
Alden inclined his head. "Of course."
He turned, walking back to his desk under a hundred staring eyes. As he passed the Gryffindor row, Ron muttered something that sounded like "bloody lunatic." Alden didn't react.
He sat, reopened his journal, and began to write—calm, detached, as if the duel hadn't happened at all. His quill moved in precise lines, sketching runes that shimmered faintly when the ink dried.
From the front of the room, Moody watched him for a long time, jaw tight, wand tapping absently against his palm. The magical eye spun once, then stilled—fixed on Alden like a lens trying to decide whether it was seeing a student or something else entirely.
No one spoke for the rest of the lesson. Even when the bell rang, the room emptied in silence.
Outside, in the corridor, Theo finally let out a low whistle. "You know," he said, "most people try to avoid provoking the unhinged ex-Auror."
Alden closed his journal. "And most people," he said, "aren't worth his attention."
Theo shook his head, grinning despite himself. "You're going to get hexed in your sleep one of these days."
"Then I'll learn faster," Alden replied.
The torches guttered as they passed, light bending faintly in their wake, and behind them, in the classroom, Moody's growl echoed under his breath—half amusement, half warning.
"Arrogant little prodigy…"
But the glint in his good eye said something closer to impressive.