The air was gentler now—after months of frost, Hogwarts had finally begun to breathe again. Sunlight pressed through the high windows of the dungeons in narrow, reluctant bands, touching the cold stone as if uncertain it was allowed.
Alden Dreyse walked the corridor alone. His breath no longer misted in the air, yet the walls still remembered winter—cool, damp, streaked with the faint veins of frost that never quite melted. The day, by all accounts, was his birthday.
He felt much the same as he did every other morning.
Birthdays had never meant much to him. They were measurements of time, not meaning—proof that he'd endured another year, not necessarily that he'd changed. Still, when Theo had cornered him at breakfast, grinning in a way that meant trouble, and said, "Don't disappear after class tonight," Alden had simply raised a brow and replied, "Why? Planning an ambush?"
"Something like that," Theo had said, and left it at that.
Now, with twilight sliding down the stairwells and the echo of evening bells fading, Alden pushed open a heavy door at the far end of the lower corridor—the one no one but he ever seemed to notice. The hinges groaned, and a breath of air, cold and metallic, brushed his face.
The "Frost Room," they called it.
The rumor said he'd frozen it solid one night in a fit of rage—that the walls still whispered spells too cold to speak aloud. Nonsense, of course. There was no ice here. Only what his training had left behind: scored stone, hairline fractures, the faint scorch of failed wards, the residue of power restrained too late.
The chamber smelled faintly of ash and chalk dust, with a tinge of something cleaner underneath—ozone, the aftertaste of spellcraft.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
"Surprise," Theo said dryly from the corner, leaning against a cracked column. He was surrounded by the rest of their small circle—Daphne, Draco, Tracey, Pansy, Blaise, even Crabbe and Goyle, all trying, with various degrees of subtlety, to look casual.
Someone—Tracey, by the look of it—had conjured floating orbs of soft emerald light, which drifted lazily above a small table transfigured from a stack of rubble. Upon it sat a modest cake, lopsided and dusted with silver icing that shimmered faintly under the green glow.
Alden stopped, faint surprise flickering across his face. "You brought a cake into a training room."
"Not just any cake," Draco said, straightening proudly. "A Dreyse-grade cake. It defies symmetry and probably several health codes."
Pansy smirked. "He means he tried to help, and Tracey had to fix it before it exploded."
"I call it artistic ambition," Draco muttered.
Theo clapped him on the shoulder. "We call it mercy that Tracey's the one with wand control."
Tracey rolled her eyes but smiled, cheeks flushed from laughter. "Don't listen to them, Alden. It's perfectly edible. Probably."
Alden stepped closer, the light glinting off his eyes—green-grey, unreadable as ever. "You all realize I don't actually celebrate these things."
"That's exactly why we had to," Daphne said softly.
He glanced at her. She stood a little apart from the others, as always—composed, reserved, yet her gaze carried warmth no one else ever managed to draw from him. Her hair caught the lamplight like fine silver thread.
Theo handed him a fork. "Happy birthday, you ungrateful genius. You're fifteen. That's an achievement in this school."
Alden took the fork but didn't use it. "It's a day."
Theo grinned. "Then call it a well-fed day."
The laughter that followed was small but real, the sound echoing strangely in the stone chamber. For a few moments, the walls didn't feel so cold.
Draco produced a narrow box wrapped in silver paper and thrust it forward with theatrical flourish. "Before you say anything—yes, I spent actual thought on this. You're welcome."
Alden opened it carefully. Inside lay a wand holster of deep green dragonhide, engraved with delicate runes for concealment and warding.
"Figured you could use something stylish to match your paranoia," Draco said.
Alden's mouth curved. "It's impressive. Almost thoughtful."
"Don't let it go to your head," Draco said, though his grin was pure satisfaction.
Tracey handed him a slim leather notebook, embossed with an intricate geometric pattern. "For your… experiments," she said with an awkward wave. "I added spell-resistant bindings. I got tired of watching you ruin parchment."
Pansy offered a silver quill with a sardonic, "You can sign autographs when you inevitably become the Ministry's next problem."
Even Blaise, quiet and detached as always, nodded toward a small bottle of imported ink. "Something worthy of your endless revisions."
Alden looked at each of them in turn, his expression unreadable at first—then softening, just slightly.
"Thank you," he said, his tone subdued but sincere. "All of you."
"Daphne hasn't given hers yet," Theo said, smirking. "We saved the best for last."
She hesitated, then stepped forward, holding out a small box. Inside was a ring—sterling silver, etched with runes so fine they looked almost like veins of frost.
"It's a binding ward," she said quietly. "Not against you—for you. It steadies excess energy when you cast too much. So you don't end up bleeding from the wrists again."
Theo coughed delicately. "Ah. Sentimental and practical. She knows you well."
Alden slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. The faint hum of runic energy met his pulse like a heartbeat syncing to another.
"It's—" He stopped, searching for the right word, then settled on, "Perfect."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was full.
Theo, mercifully, broke it. "Right. Someone cut the cake before Draco declares himself artistic director of dessert."
The room filled with the small noise of conversation and laughter—the sound of friends unburdened, if only for a while. Even Alden, sitting at the edge of the makeshift table, looked less like the legend whispered about in corridors and more like the boy he might've been, had the world not already decided what he was.
When the candles burned low and the others drifted out, Theo lingered, helping vanish crumbs and restore the room to its ordinary damage.
"Not bad for someone who doesn't celebrate," Theo said as he pocketed his wand.
Alden leaned against the cracked wall, gaze distant. "It was… unexpected."
"Good, unexpected, or uncomfortable unexpected?"
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Both."
Theo laughed quietly. "We'll take it." He paused, studying Alden's face in the half-light. "You look lighter. Don't ruin it by thinking too hard."
"I'll try," Alden said, though his eyes said otherwise.
When Theo finally left, Alden remained behind. The green lights had dimmed, leaving only the moon's reflection creeping through the high window. He looked down at the silver ring glinting on his hand, felt the faint pulse of it against his skin.
For the first time in a long while, the silence didn't feel empty.
He exhaled slowly, the sound of it mingling with the whisper of old magic still clinging to the walls. Then he turned back to his notes, quill in hand.
Outside, spring wind brushed against the castle, stirring petals across the Black Lake. Inside the Frost Room, Alden Dreyse began another year exactly as he lived the last—writing, studying, building power in quiet defiance of every story told about him.
By mid-May, Hogwarts had become a whispering organism. Rumors multiplied faster than owls at dawn — alive, impossible to contain, each one contradicting the nex,t yet somehow all believed.
By breakfast, three new stories would emerge. By lunch, twelve. By dinner, fifty.
They said Alden Dreyse didn't sleep, that he drew power from the lake when the moon was high. That Snape brewed him potions forbidden even to the Ministry. That he'd once frozen an entire classroom or burned through his own desk just to see what happened. Some whispered he'd killed Rita Skeeter and made the Prophet forget she existed.
No one had proof, of course. Proof was unnecessary.
It wasn't just the younger years now; even seventh-years gave him a wide berth. Conversations dulled when he entered a corridor. The air itself seemed to sharpen, tense and watchful, until he'd passed — then voices would start again, quieter, like a forest after lightning.
He carried on as though nothing had changed. In class, he answered every question, precise and calm. In the library, he filled his notebooks with theory no one else could follow. At meals, he sat with his circle — Theo's dry remarks, Daphne's steady presence, Draco's theatrical loyalty — and if he noticed the way the Great Hall leaned away from him, he gave no sign.
To most of Hogwarts, he had stopped being a student. He had become a story that walked.
On the far side of the same hall, Harry Potter could feel it. The distance. The weight. The cold curiosity every time Alden's name was mentioned.
"He's not even pretending anymore," Ron muttered around his toast, glaring across the room. "Look at him. Like he owns the place."
Hermione sighed without looking up from the Daily Prophet. "Honestly, Ron, not everything he does is some—"
"He froze the dungeons."
"That's a rumor," she said sharply.
"So's the one about him erasing that reporter," Ron shot back. "But Skeeter's still missing, isn't she?"
Harry stayed quiet. His fork moved idly through his eggs, untouched. Across the room, Alden said something to Theo that made the Slytherins laugh — not loud, not cruel, just… knowing. Controlled.
Harry's stomach tightened.
He didn't hate Dreyse. Not exactly. But every time he looked at him, something crawled up the back of his neck — something that said you could fight him, and still lose.
"Draco told me yesterday," he said quietly, "that there's no rule against champions… hurting each other during the final task."
Ron turned, face tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Harry said, eyes fixed on the Slytherin table, "that whatever's waiting in that maze might not be the only thing I have to watch for."
Hermione finally looked up, brow furrowing. "He wouldn't—"
"How do you know?" Ron cut in. "He's been walking around like a ghost for weeks. You saw what he did to Moody — dropped him without even trying. What do you think he'll do when there's a cup at stake and no teachers watching?"
Harry didn't answer. He remembered Dumbledore's words from that night in the office: 'Do not mistake silence for approval, my boy. Even storms are quiet before they break.'
He hadn't been sure then what it meant. He wasn't sure now.
Hermione folded her paper slowly. "You're both being paranoid," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "The tournament isn't supposed to be about attacking each other."
"Yeah," Ron muttered, "and flying dragons weren't supposed to happen either."
Harry rubbed at his temple, the dull ache of nerves starting behind his eyes. The Third Task loomed closer each day, and the more he thought about it, the less he slept. He'd seen what Alden was capable of — that calm precision that made spells look effortless. There was no malice in it, but there was no mercy either.
"Maybe," Harry said finally, voice low, "he doesn't care about winning. Maybe he just wants to prove he can."
Hermione frowned. "Prove what?"
"That he's not like everyone else," Harry murmured. "That the rules don't apply to him."
They all fell silent. Across the hall, Alden was reading from a small green-bound book, its pages worn thin. Daphne leaned over to whisper something, and he answered with the faintest smile.
It should have looked ordinary.It didn't.
Hermione sighed. "We're just—tired. The tournament's nearly over. Maybe once it is—"
"Once it is," Ron interrupted, "he'll probably have half the school bowing to him."
Harry didn't respond. He kept his eyes on Alden until the Slytherins rose to leave. The boy moved like a shadow over glass, quiet, measured, perfectly composed. Even his footsteps didn't echo.
And yet, as he passed the Gryffindor table, Harry swore he felt the faintest chill trail in his wake — the kind that wasn't from weather, but from gravity itself, as if something heavier than air had just brushed by.
The hall resumed its noise once he was gone, the spell broken. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just the castle watching Alden Dreyse now.
It was the story forming around him — and it was growing teeth.
The Defence classroom felt smaller that morning.It wasn't the size of the room that had changed — it was the air itself, thick with the smell of singed parchment and nerves. The desks had been pushed to the walls; the floor was scuffed from too many dueling boots. Torches flickered unevenly, their flames restless, as if the castle itself knew what was coming.
Moody stood in the center, pacing like a wolf that hadn't eaten in days. His magical eye spun lazily, scanning the students."Enough of theory," he barked. "Books don't save you when someone's trying to split your spine. Today, we find out who among you can think while afraid."
A low ripple of unease passed through the class. Draco muttered under his breath, "He's deranged," and Theo replied quietly, "Yes, but accurate."
"Pair up," Moody snapped. "I want you to mean it."
Spells began to fly — cautious, unsteady. Sparks of red and blue streaked across the room. Some students flinched before casting; others fired too fast and lost control. Moody stalked between them, snarling corrections and occasionally disarming someone for sport.
When a stray curse — a poorly-aimed Blasting Hex — hurtled toward Tracey, Alden moved before thought caught up to instinct.
His wand cut a clean, inverted arc through the air. The spell struck an invisible current and twisted — a quiet pulse, then a sharp crack. The energy rebounded toward the far wall, harmless but violent enough to make the torches flare blue. The shockwave threw parchment into the air like startled birds.
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
Then Moody laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound." Well, well," he growled. "There's the Dreyse they all whisper about. The one who doesn't flinch when things get dangerous."
Alden lowered his wand fractionally. "And you wonder why they do."
The class went still. Slytherins held their breath; Gryffindors leaned forward, hungry for a show.
Moody's grin widened. "Careful, boy. Pride looks a lot like overconfidence when you're standing in front of a killer."
"Is that what you were?" Alden asked quietly. "Or just what you became?"
The air changed. Even Theo's usual smirk vanished.
Moody's wand flicked up before anyone could blink. "Let's find out."
A flash — white, searing, faster than sight. Alden moved once, hand steady, the motion more thought than reaction. His wand drew a tight spiral in the air, pulling light inward.
"Gravemora."
The room collapsed.
Sound fell away — no screams, no breath, just pressure. The torches dimmed to ghostly blue. Dust hung suspended midair. Even light seemed to bend toward the boy in the center of the room.
Moody staggered. His wooden leg scraped the floor; his hand trembled against the pull. The magic he'd unleashed turned on him, a tide reversing. He gasped — not in pain, but shock — as the weight of his own power pressed down, invisible but absolute.
A ring of black-silver light shimmered briefly at Alden's feet, pulsing like a heartbeat.
For three seconds, the world held its breath. Then Alden released it.
The air snapped outward with a thunderclap. Torches flared back to life. Papers and dust rained down in a sudden gust. The silence that followed was total.
Moody was still standing, one hand braced against his desk, breath ragged. Then he started to laugh — low, rasping, delighted."Merlin's bones, boy," he wheezed. "You nearly put me through the floor."
Alden's expression didn't change. "Almost," he said.
The Gryffindors' whispers broke through the quiet like a fissure."Dark magic—""Did you see the torches?""He didn't even say a counter-curse—" That was wrong, that wasn't normal—"
Draco rounded on them. "Shut your mouths before you choke on your own ignorance."
But the room had already turned. Half the students stared at Alden as if he'd pulled something alive and dangerous out of thin air.
Moody straightened slowly, eyes bright with something between madness and respect. "You've got a dangerous instinct, Dreyse," he said, voice low. "You don't defend — you dominate. That's not defence. That's conquest."
Alden's tone was calm, surgical. "Intent defines outcome. You attacked first."
Moody grinned, scar pulling taut. "You'll make a fine duelist… or a fine corpse. Depends who gets lucky first."
A rustle near the door — Professor Dumbledore's voice, cool and measured. "That will be enough, Alastor."
The headmaster stepped into the room, his presence quiet but instantly commanding."Your enthusiasm for realism is, as always, appreciated," he said mildly, "but I suspect the castle will not survive another lesson at this intensity."
Moody's good eye twitched. "They have to learn."
"They will," Dumbledore said. "Preferably without imploding their instructor."
Laughter — nervous, half-hearted — rippled through the class.
Alden had already lowered his wand, but Dumbledore's gaze found him immediately. The blue of his eyes wasn't cold, exactly, but it carried depth — the kind of stillness that saw through masks.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said quietly. "A word, if you please."
The class broke into motion, too eager to leave. Gryffindors muttered as they filed out, words like dark spell and forbidden charm chasing them into the hall. Even some Slytherins kept their distance.
Theo lingered by the door, watching Alden's expression. He looked calm, but his pulse thrummed faintly in the air around him, that electric charge that followed heavy magic.
Moody was still grinning when they passed. "Don't apologize for being what you are, boy," he said. "Just make sure you survive it."
Alden didn't answer. He met Dumbledore's gaze, gave a single nod, and followed him out of the room.
Behind them, the torches flickered again — their flames bending subtly inward, as though the air itself still remembered the gravity of his magic.
And for the first time in weeks, even the castle seemed to hold its breath.
The corridors between the Defence classroom and Dumbledore's office were almost silent — the kind of silence that had a temperature. Cold, heavy, deliberate.
Alden followed a few paces behind, his footsteps light on the stone. The only sound came from the faint sweep of Dumbledore's robes brushing against the flagstones and the distant hum of the castle itself — an old, sentient thing listening in.
Neither spoke. Dumbledore's pace was unhurried, but not casual. It was the walk of a man thinking, measuring his next words as though he could feel their weight already forming.
When they reached the gargoyle, Dumbledore murmured a password that sounded like nonsense — something about toffee and treacle — and the statue moved aside with a grinding sigh.
The spiral staircase lifted them upward, the torches bending their flames as they passed.
Inside, the Headmaster's office smelled faintly of smoke, wax, and lemon drops. The walls glimmered with the soft ticking of silver instruments and the occasional flare of phoenix feathers — Fawkes watched from his perch, bright-eyed, his head tilting slightly as they entered.
"Please," Dumbledore said, gesturing toward one of the armchairs opposite his desk. "Sit, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden did, wordless. His composure didn't waver, but his jaw was set with the quiet tension of someone expecting punishment and uninterested in apology.
Dumbledore took his own seat, the chair creaking softly beneath his weight. He reached into a small dish on the desk and held it out. "Sherbet lemon?"
Alden glanced at it, then at him. "No, thank you, sir."
"Ah," Dumbledore said mildly, setting it back down. "I confess, I sometimes forget that not everyone finds solace in sugar."
He leaned back, folding his hands over his lap. "You've caused quite a stir, Alden."
"I defended myself," Alden said simply.
"And in doing so," Dumbledore replied, "you frightened half the class and silenced the other half."
Alden's tone didn't shift. "Then they were listening."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Oh, they were listening, yes. Whether they understood is another matter entirely."
He rose and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The sky beyond was pale with late spring light, the lake glinting in the distance. "You remind me of someone I once knew," he said after a pause. "Brilliant. Restless. Obsessed with intent over morality."
Alden's gaze followed him. "Gellert Grindelwald."
Dumbledore's mouth curved, but not in amusement. "Ah. So you know your family history."
"Mathius Dreyse was his brother," Alden said quietly. "The one born without magic. Gellert built his philosophy from what Mathius believed — that magic was a reflection of will, not morality."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. "Mathius was… remarkable. Gentle, though the world rarely rewarded gentleness. He believed that understanding was power enough. Gellert believed power was understanding."
He turned, his blue eyes catching the candlelight like glass. "Tell me, Alden — which one do you believe?"
Alden met his gaze evenly. "Both. Understanding without power changes nothing. Power without understanding destroys everything. Balance is the only truth."
For a moment, Dumbledore simply watched him — and something old flickered behind his eyes. A memory, perhaps. Two boys standing in sunlight decades ago, arguing about the shape of the world.
"You even sound like him," he said softly. "You wield logic the way he once wielded charm."
"I'm not him," Alden said.
"No," Dumbledore agreed. "But I fear you walk the same road. Brilliant minds are most dangerous when they believe they're immune to consequence."
Alden's jaw tightened. "You think I enjoy what they call me? Dark Lord. Monster. I've done nothing but try to understand the magic we all use."
"I think," Dumbledore said, coming closer, "that you enjoy the control it gives you over what you can't trust — including yourself."
That landed like a quiet strike. Alden didn't look away, but his stillness sharpened.
"You have power few your age could comprehend," Dumbledore continued. "And discipline enough to wield it carefully. That, I admire. But power that mirrors intent will, one day, mirror your heart. And if your heart hardens — as Gellert's did — your brilliance will become ruin."
The room was silent except for the faint whir of a silver instrument on the shelf.
Alden said, finally, "You think I'll become like him."
Dumbledore's voice softened. "I think you already are — in the ways that made him extraordinary. And in the ways that frightened me."
Alden's expression didn't change, but the faintest breath of cold passed through the room — not temperature, but presence. "You talk as though the story has already been written."
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Oh, stories like yours begin long before we start reading them. The only choice left is how you wish to end it."
Alden stood slowly, the chair legs whispering against the rug. "If you think I'm dangerous, Headmaster, why let me stay?"
Dumbledore looked at him for a long time. "Because," he said quietly, "you might still choose not to be."
He gestured toward the door, but his tone gentled. "I will not punish you for defending your classmates. But you must learn that the world does not fear power for what it can do. It fears it for what it remembers."
Alden tilted his head slightly. "And what do you remember, Headmaster?"
The question landed like glass against stone. For a heartbeat, Dumbledore looked almost young again — haunted, wistful.
"Too much," he said simply.
They stood there, silence between them thick and fragile. Fawkes gave a low trill, the sound soft as forgiveness.
Finally, Dumbledore broke it. "Go, Alden. And be careful with what you build. The line between creation and destruction is thinner than you think."
Alden inclined his head. "Understood."
He turned toward the door, pausing only once — eyes flicking briefly to the phoenix, then back to Dumbledore. "If intent defines outcome," he said quietly, "then I'll make sure mine never falters."
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. "See that it doesn't."
When the door closed behind him, the headmaster stood very still, staring at the faint shimmer of air left in Alden's wake.
For the briefest moment, he saw not the boy who had just left, but another — younger, laughing, eyes full of conviction and fire.
He reached absently for a sherbet lemon, but didn't eat it.
"Mathius," he murmured to the empty room, "your blood still burns bright… let's hope it remembers mercy."
Outside, Alden walked back through the quiet corridors, the sound of his footsteps steady, precise. The air behind him cooled faintly — not from malice, but from focus.
Whatever storm Dumbledore feared, Alden had already chosen how he would meet it.
Dinner that evening felt like walking into an audience he hadn't asked for.
The Great Hall was loud in the way of a storm about to break—too many voices, too much tension stitched into every breath. Conversations sparked and died as Alden entered, the noise dipping for just a heartbeat before surging again with a new current of whispering.
He crossed the threshold as he always did: shoulders straight, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on the Slytherin table. The candles overhead swayed faintly in their enchanted drift, their light bending toward him as though drawn by something unseen.
The first voice came from the Hufflepuff table."He hexed Moody.""No, he collapsed him.""I heard Dumbledore had to stop him before he killed him."
From the Ravenclaws: "That wasn't in any spellbook. I checked the library already.""It bent gravity. That's not even legal magic."
And from the Gryffindors—louder, crueler, because fear always spoke loudest: "He's a lunatic. If he can attack a teacher, what'll he do in the maze?""I heard it wasn't even self-defense.""It's dark magic—what else do you expect from him?"
Ron Weasley leaned closer to Harry, voice low but urgent. "You need to stay the hell away from him, mate. You go near him in that maze, you're dead. Dumbledore won't be there to stop him next time."
Harry didn't answer, just watched across the hall as Alden passed. There was something unnerving in the boy's calm—a silence that didn't read as guilt, but as indifference.
"He's not reckless," Hermione murmured, almost to herself. "That's what makes him dangerous."
Harry said nothing. He didn't know if he feared Dreyse because of what he might do, or because of how easily he might do it.
Alden reached the Slytherin table and sat without a word. Theo shifted over to make room; Draco, ever the dramatist, made a point of glaring at the Gryffindors across the aisle like he was dueling them with his eyes.
Tracey was the first to speak, her voice low enough not to carry. "You know, most people don't nearly flatten a professor before dinner."
Theo smirked. "Most professors don't try to hex our friends either."
Alden poured himself a cup of tea. "Moody wasn't trying to hex me," he said evenly. "He was testing my restraint."
"And you failed spectacularly," Pansy said, though there was no real bite behind it—only reluctant admiration.
Tracey leaned forward slightly, her expression softening. "Still," she said, "thank you. For stopping that spell. If you hadn't—"
"It's fine," Alden interrupted, not unkindly. He lifted his teacup with a faint half-smile that almost reached his eyes. "You were standing too close to a man who enjoys danger. I adjusted the odds."
Theo chuckled, shaking his head. "You make heroism sound like arithmetic."
Draco snorted. "It is arithmetic, if you're him. One curse in, one curse out, multiplied by superiority."
Pansy swatted Draco's arm with her spoon. "He's not wrong."
But Daphne hadn't said anything. She sat across from Alden, elbows resting lightly on the table, her gaze steady and unreadable. The rest of the group's chatter blurred around her.
She saw it—the faint silver glint of the ring she'd given him, catching the flicker of candlelight as he reached for his cup. He was still wearing it. Even after everything.
Her throat tightened with something she couldn't quite name.
"They're all saying you have no boundaries anymore," she said finally, her voice soft but carrying. "That you don't know where to stop."
Alden looked at her, not defensive—just tired. "They said the same after the lake."
"That was different," she said.
"Was it?" He set the cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the table. "I saved someone, and it frightened them. I protected someone, and it frightened them again. Maybe they're not afraid of what I do—they're afraid of what it says about what they wouldn't."
The table fell quiet for a moment. Even Theo didn't have a quip for that.
Daphne's eyes flickered down briefly, to the twin serpents twined around her wrist—jewelry he'd given her at the Yule Ball, their emerald eyes still faintly luminous under torchlight. She hadn't taken it off since.
When she met his gaze again, there was something like understanding there."You'd do anything for the people you care about," she said quietly. He didn't look away. "Yes."
"Even if it means they'll never forgive you for it."
Alden's expression barely shifted, but his answer came without hesitation. "Especially then."
The words sat between them, heavier than sound.
Theo leaned back, letting out a long, low whistle. "Well," he said, trying for levity, "remind me to stay on your good side."
"You don't have a bad side," Tracey said, elbowing him.
Theo grinned. "He does. I've seen it. It's terrifyingly polite."
That drew a small ripple of laughter around the table, enough to loosen the air again. But Daphne didn't look away from Alden, and he didn't break the gaze either.
It wasn't challenge or defiance. It was acknowledgment — two minds that understood something about the cost of control, and the loneliness that came with it.
A murmur of noise swelled again from the other tables — speculation, fear, exaggeration. None of it mattered here.
Alden lifted his cup once more, taking a sip of tea gone lukewarm, and set it down carefully. "They'll forget," he said quietly.
Theo gave him a wry look. "They never forget."
"No," Alden agreed, "but they'll get used to it."
Outside the enchanted windows, dusk settled over the castle. The torches flickered green against the stone, their light catching silver — a ring on one hand, a serpent on another.
And for the first time since the duel, Alden allowed himself to exhale, steady and deliberate, the faintest trace of warmth hidden in the breath.
The storm could rage as it liked. He would not bend.
The last week of May bled slowly into twilight. The castle seemed to know the air was changing—its torches burned lower, its stones held their breath. Even the lake had gone still, as if waiting for something to rise from beneath it.
After Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall kept two students behind. Her tone was crisp, but her eyes flicked, for a heartbeat, between them—between Harry Potter and Alden Dreyse.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Dreyse," she said, hands clasped behind her back. "Professor Bagman requests your presence on the Quidditch pitch at nine this evening. He will explain the parameters of the third task. Do be punctual."
Her gaze lingered on Alden a fraction longer than necessary, perhaps expecting a smirk, a question, some sign of defiance. He only inclined his head.
"Yes, Professor."
When they left the classroom, the corridor between them was full of the kind of silence that hums—not hostile, but alive with too many thoughts.
It was dark by the time they stepped outside. The grounds breathed spring air, heavy with the scent of damp grass and lilac. The moon floated pale and watchful above the Forbidden Forest, silvering the towers of Hogwarts in uneven light.
For a while, neither spoke. Their footsteps were nearly synchronized, the rhythm of two hearts moving toward the same inevitable thing for entirely different reasons.
Harry broke first. "You really think Moody deserved that?"
Alden didn't look at him. "Deservedness doesn't factor into self-preservation."
"That's not what I asked."
"No," Alden said quietly, "it isn't."
The wind carried their words across the grass like pieces of something broken.
Harry's jaw worked, his fists tightening at his sides. "You could have killed him."
Alden stopped walking, turning slightly toward him. The moon caught the edges of his hair, silver making silver. "If I wanted to kill him, I would have."
There was no boast in it—only truth, soft and surgical. That made it worse.
Harry swallowed hard. "You sound like you're proud of it."
"I'm not proud," Alden said. "I'm certain."
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
The Quidditch pitch loomed ahead, vast and ghostly. The stadium lights had been dimmed; only a scatter of floating torches marked the field. As they drew closer, they saw what waited there—rows of hedges stretching across the pitch, low now but thick, pulsing faintly with enchantment. The smell of new earth and ozone hung in the air.
Ludo Bagman stood in the middle of it all, beaming as though the world wasn't about to test children with death. His bright yellow robes looked garish in the moonlight.
"Ah, there you are!" he called, voice too cheerful against the night. "Perfect timing, lads! Just waiting on Miss Delacour and Krum—ah, splendid, splendid. What do you think, eh? They're growing nicely, aren't they? Maze'll be twenty feet tall by the time we're done."
Harry stared at the twisting rows of green and thought it looked less like a maze and more like a trap that had been waiting all along.
Alden's expression didn't change. His eyes drifted along the hedges, reading the patterns of enchantment woven through them. "A labyrinth," he said quietly. "How poetic."
Bagman clapped his hands together. "Yes, well! The idea's simple enough! The Triwizard Cup will be placed right at the center. The first champion to reach it wins the Tournament. Nice and straightforward, eh?"
Alden tilted his head. "And what happens," he murmured, "to the one who reaches it last?"
The question hung there—gentle, but heavy enough that even the other champions looked up.
Bagman laughed, high and nervous. "Oh, nothing fatal, I assure you! Just a bit of sport, my boy. Bit of fun and flair for the crowd!"
"Fun," Alden repeated, eyes never leaving the maze. His voice was quiet, but something beneath it made the torches gutter.
Bagman coughed, tugging at his collar. "Well, the usual obstacles, of course—creatures, spells, a few surprises from Hagrid, heh! But the maze'll test your focus, that's the real trick. Not every threat comes at you screaming."
"Some whisper," Alden said.
Bagman blinked. "Pardon?"
Alden smiled faintly. "Nothing."
Fleur was whispering something to Krum in French, her tone uneasy. Harry barely heard her; his eyes were on Alden again. The boy stood perfectly still, but something about the stillness unnerved him more than motion ever could. It wasn't calm—it was control so absolute it didn't need to be proven.
For the first time, Harry felt certain that Alden wouldn't hesitate inside that maze. That if their paths crossed, it wouldn't matter who got there first—only who walked out at all.
When Bagman finally dismissed them, the group began the slow walk back toward the castle. The other champions murmured to each other, subdued. Harry kept his distance, but not far enough that he couldn't hear the soft sound of Alden's boots in the grass behind him—measured, patient, unhurried.
As they passed the edge of the pitch, the torches flickered once, flaring green before settling back to gold.
No one noticed.
Except Alden.
He paused just long enough to glance back at the maze. The hedges swayed in the wind, whispering secrets to the night. The enchantments shimmered faintly, almost alive.
"Almost ready," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Harry heard him, though. The words slid under his skin like ice.
When they reached the foot of the castle steps, Harry broke off toward the Gryffindor Tower without looking back. Alden watched him go, expression unreadable, then turned toward the dungeons.
Above them, thunder rolled somewhere distant — not a storm yet, but a promise of one.
And beneath the ground, in the frost-lined stones that remembered every secret ever spoken, something ancient and wordless stirred — listening, waiting, knowing the game was nearly done.