The dungeons breathed cold.
Alden moved down the corridor with the faint echo of his steps following him like a ghost. The torches lining the stone walls hissed and crackled in the damp air, throwing long, distorted shadows that wavered with each pass. Students milled between classes—clusters of black robes and murmured chatter—but every conversation seemed to falter the instant he drew near.
A ripple of silence followed him.
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw third years were queued outside Snape's classroom, parchment and ingredients clutched in their arms. The moment they noticed him, the chatter died completely. One boy's whisper carried too far in the hush:
"That's him."
A girl's voice, low and frightened, answered, "You mean the one from the graveyard—?"
"—they say he almost killed a professor—"
"—No, it's true, my mum works at the Ministry, she said they've got a file on him—"
Alden's jaw tightened, but he kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. His silver-white hair caught the torchlight, a pale gleam against the black of his robes. The air seemed to thin wherever he passed.
He turned a corner; the crowd parted instinctively, the way students might step aside for a ghost.
He could feel their eyes. Fear in some, disgust in others. A few—older Slytherins mostly—watched with an unreadable mix of awe and unease, like spectators at the edge of a dangerous storm.
"Next Dark Lord," someone muttered just loudly enough for him to hear. "Wonder if he even sleeps at night."
Alden slowed. For a fraction of a heartbeat, his head tilted—just enough for the whisperer to see the flash of grey-green eyes under the torchlight. Cold, calm, unreadable. The boy's face drained of color.
Alden said nothing. He didn't need to.
The sound of the boy's parchment hitting the floor was the only thing that followed him as he reached the end of the corridor.
He paused outside the classroom door. From within came the measured rhythm of Snape's voice—cool, clipped, absolute authority cutting through the hum of brewing cauldrons.
Alden drew a slow breath. His fingers brushed the cuff of his sleeve—the skin beneath it still faintly warm from where the sigil scars used to flare. He pushed the thought down.
Then, with a faint creak of hinges, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Dozens of faces turned. The dungeon was lit by the greenish glow of simmering potions, the air thick with the scent of asphodel and burnt silver. A cluster of Ravenclaws by the front bench froze mid-stir; one of them dropped her quill into her cauldron, which hissed sharply.
Snape looked up from the blackboard, wand poised in his hand. His eyes—black, sharp, unreadable—found Alden at once.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said in that silken tone that could flay skin from bone. "To what do I owe this… intrusion?"
Alden met his gaze evenly. "If this is a bad time, sir, I can come back."
Snape regarded him for a moment longer, expression unreadable, then gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head."No, Mr. Dreyse," he said. "Whether I like it or not, I cannot leave. You may come in. Speak."
The class whispered faintly, a nervous rustle that Snape's glare silenced at once.
Alden crossed the room, the heel of his boot echoing on stone, and stopped beside the teacher's desk. The warmth from the nearest cauldron brushed against his skin, but the air between them was cold as glass.
He hesitated, then lowered his voice."I need to speak to you, sir," he said quietly. "It's about Professor Umbridge."
For the briefest moment, the corner of Snape's mouth twitched—disapproval, irritation, or perhaps something nearer to concern."Of course it is," he said dryly.
He turned sharply to the class."You will continue simmering your Draughts of Clarity," he instructed. "If I find a single cauldron boiled over when I return to you, I will deduct points until you weep."
A hush fell again.
Then Snape's eyes flicked back to Alden. "Well, Mr. Dreyse," he murmured, "let us discuss how you've managed to survive your first morning without detonating something—or someone."
The faintest trace of a smirk ghosted across Alden's lips."Almost," he said quietly.
And somewhere behind him, one of the third-years whispered, "He sounds like he means it."
The dungeon's torches hissed louder, as if echoing the tension between them.
The dungeon felt even colder now that Snape had stopped speaking.
A simmering hush had fallen over the classroom—cauldrons bubbling quietly, the faint hiss of steam coiling up like nervous breath. The air was thick with the metallic tang of potion fumes, the sharp scent of asphodel and burned sage.
Snape flicked his wand once, sharply, toward the front benches. "Continue your brewing," he said. "Stir counter-clockwise until I say otherwise. If I smell one burnt infusion, you will start again."
The third-years turned immediately back to their cauldrons, though several cast quick, curious glances over their shoulders. Alden remained by the teacher's desk, standing straight and silent.
Snape's dark eyes swept to him like drawn knives.
"Well?" he said softly, dangerously. "What has the Ministry's pet decided to do with you now?"
Alden's hand tugged his sleeve lower, an old instinct. "She wants a public apology," he said, voice quiet, clipped. "Tomorrow morning. Before the school."
Snape's jaw flexed.
"She's reporting the incident to the Lineage Integrity Commission. She said there'll be… comprehensive notes in my file. And that I'm to refrain from using any magic in or out of class until they assess my stability.'"
A low, humorless sound escaped Snape—half snort, half growl. He leaned a hand on the desk, knuckles whitening. "Did you listen to anything I told you this morning?"
Alden's gaze stayed level. "You told me to give her an inch," he said. "I gave her none."
For a long, brittle second, there was only the sound of bubbling potions and the faint drip of condensation against stone.
Snape's nostrils flared. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What did you do this morning?"
Alden hesitated. Then, simply: "I told her she'd be dead first if she tried to 'contain' what she fears."
The words hit like a curse.
Snape's composure shattered. His voice cracked through the room like a whip: "You are a fool, Dreyse!"
The entire class froze. A Ravenclaw girl jumped, nearly upsetting her cauldron; a glass pipette rolled from her trembling fingers and shattered on the floor. Even the steam seemed to hang motionless in the air.
Snape's fury filled the dungeon like a storm, his robes flaring as he spun on Alden. "I told you to keep your head down. I told you not to antagonize her. And you decide, in your infinite brilliance, to threaten a Ministry official!"
Alden didn't flinch. He stood in the shadow of Snape's rage with the same cold steadiness he had in the graveyard—pale eyes fixed forward, calm as frost.
"I didn't threaten her," he said quietly. "I told her the truth."
"The truth?" Snape's voice dripped contempt. "The truth will not matter to them! They'll print what they please, twist it how they wish, and they'll use it to bury you, Dreyse."
A student coughed nervously. Snape's glare shot through the room like lightning. "Out," he snapped at the nearest Slytherins hovering by the doorway. "All of you. Into the corridor. Now."
Chairs scraped. Cloaks swished. Within seconds, the dungeon was emptier, quieter—just the bubbling of cauldrons and the ragged breath of students too afraid to move.
Snape turned back to Alden, his fury more controlled now, more cutting. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Umbridge is not a madman like Crouch. She has power. She sits in the Minister's office every other day. The moment she so much as flinches, the Aurors will line up outside this castle."
Alden's voice was calm, but his hand trembled slightly at his side. "Then let them. If they're so desperate to fear someone, I'll give them something worth fearing."
Snape's eyes flashed. "That—" his voice rose, low and lethal, "—is exactly what they want you to say."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The tension between them thrummed like a drawn bowstring.
Finally, Snape straightened, drawing in a measured breath, forcing the fury back down behind that iron mask he wore so well. When he spoke again, his voice was low but dangerous, every word edged with reluctant concern.
"You will listen to me now," he said. "You are being watched by the Ministry, hunted by rumor, and paraded as a weapon they can point to. You are not to give them an inch. Not one word they can use. You are to sit, nod, and let them believe you've been tamed. Do you understand me?"
Alden's reply was quiet. "I understand."
"No, you don't," Snape hissed. "You think this is about pride or courage. It isn't. It's survival."
He turned sharply, addressing the trembling third-years still seated near the front. "Clean your stations. You have five minutes. Then leave."
As they scurried to obey, Snape's voice lowered again, meant only for Alden. "You think yourself indestructible because you walked out of that graveyard alive. But I assure you, the Ministry can destroy you far more effectively than the Dark Lord ever could."
The words lingered in the air, heavy and cold.
Alden looked at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then, softly: "You care too much for a man who pretends not to."
Snape's gaze hardened, his voice sharpening like a knife. "And you speak too freely for a boy who should already be dead."
He turned away before Alden could answer, robes snapping as he faced the class again. "Back to work," he barked. "All of you."
The class had settled into a nervous silence again, all but pretending to be focused on their simmering cauldrons. The air was thick with the scent of iron and lavender—sharp, medicinal, unpleasantly alive.
Snape leaned over his desk, the lamplight turning the lines of his face into something carved from stone. "Well?" he asked, his voice low enough to stay between them, but with a dangerous edge that carried nonetheless. "What exactly does she want from you, Dreyse?"
Alden stood across from him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the floorboards between them. "An apology," he said quietly. "Tomorrow morning. Before the entire school."
Snape's lip curled. "Of course she does."
"She's also forwarding everything to the Lineage Integrity Commission," Alden went on, each word clipped, measured. "Said my file would include a full record of my 'outburst'—her words—and that I'm to be monitored. Restricted from using my wand outside class." He hesitated. "And… that I'm to be escorted between lessons until the Commission reviews my standing."
For a moment, Snape said nothing. His fingers flexed once on the desktop. Then: "Escorted," he repeated, as though tasting something bitter. "You'll have your own guard now. A walking advertisement of the Ministry's distrust. How very clever."
A muscle jumped in Alden's jaw.
Snape's eyes flicked toward the class. A Ravenclaw boy was sneaking a look at them, wide-eyed; Snape's glare sent him snapping his attention back to his cauldron so fast the spoon clattered. Then Snape lowered his voice again.
"You've given them everything they needed, Dreyse," he said. "A story. A spectacle. A reason to fear you."
"I didn't give them anything," Alden murmured. "They already had their story. I just stopped pretending it wasn't real."
Snape's nostrils flared. "Do not be poetic with me." His voice cut low, dangerous. "You threatened a Ministry official. Half the families in this castle have a parent working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or the Wizengamot offices. You think they'll hesitate to act when they can curry favour by denouncing you? You'll be tested now—by anyone looking to make a name, or impress the Ministry. They'll prod until you react, then cry foul when you do."
Alden's gaze lifted to meet his. "So I'm to let them?"
"You're to survive them," Snape snapped. "Let them choke on their own rumours. Let them tire themselves clawing at a wall that doesn't move. That's how you win."
Alden's fingers twitched at his side, his voice low. "They've already decided what I am, sir. Whether I fight or not, I'm still the monster in their story."
Snape's expression flickered—a rare flash of something that wasn't quite anger. Almost pity, swiftly strangled. He said nothing for a moment, just studied Alden's face with that inscrutable black gaze.
Finally, his voice came quiet, precise. "You're not a monster, Dreyse. But if you continue acting like one, you'll convince them all the faster."
Alden exhaled through his nose. It wasn't quite agreement, nor defiance. Just weariness. His eyes drifted to the row of cauldrons, their contents swirling in calm, disciplined circles. He envied them that—being contained. Controlled.
Behind them, a soft clink of glass broke the hush. Snape's head snapped up; the boy responsible went white.
"Detention," Snape said without turning from Alden. His tone was light, almost conversational, which made it all the more terrifying. "For not minding your own business."
"Yes, sir," squeaked the boy.
When the door closed behind him, Snape spoke again. "Listen to me, Dreyse. The next few days will be crucial. Do not walk alone. Do not answer questions. And for Merlin's sake, do not think about retaliating. The Ministry wants to make an example of someone. Don't hand them a victory."
Alden's reply was flat, cold. "If they want an example, they'll make one anyway."
Snape's expression darkened. "Then make sure it's not your corpse they hold up."
The clang of the fallen pipette still echoed faintly as Snape straightened, gathering himself like a shadow reassembling after lightning. His expression hardened back into that familiar, unreadable sneer—anger tucked away behind precision.
"Enough," he snapped. His voice cracked through the dungeon, sharp and cold as glass. "You will not make threats in class again, Mr. Dreyse. Nor anywhere else within these walls."
Alden said nothing, his eyes fixed on the edge of Snape's desk.
"You may think yourself justified," Snape went on, his tone a whip barely held in check, "but if you value your freedom—if you value your life—you will take my advice. This is not a war you can win with clever words or bravado. It's politics."
The air trembled with the unspoken end to that sentence, and politics kills faster than curses.
Snape's eyes flashed once more, a warning, before he turned sharply toward the nearest cauldron. His wand flicked—crack!—and a faint violet haze burst from the rim. "No, no, no," he said icily. "Did I tell you to add essence of rue, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, or powdered root?"
The boy stammered, "E-essence, sir."
"Then perhaps you should listen when instructed," Snape hissed, stooping to vanish the boiling sludge with a disdainful flick. "A single misstep, and this concoction turns to poison. Precision, class, is what separates the potion from the poisoner. The line is thin—and far too many of you seem eager to test it."
His eyes lingered a beat too long on Alden.
The room dared not breathe. Only the bubbling of cauldrons filled the silence—steady, measured, controlled.
Snape straightened, gliding back to the front of the room, robes whispering across the stone. "Restart your brews. All of you. Perhaps, if you're fortunate, the lesson will sink in before the fumes do."
Spoons began stirring again, tentatively at first. The air, though heavy, loosened slightly. The rhythm of the classroom—mechanical, fearful—returned.
Alden stood where he was, half in shadow, forcing himself to draw breath. The reprimand still burned in his chest, shame mixing with something darker—resentment, maybe, or the faint ember of defiance he could never quite smother.
Snape moved among the desks like a wraith, pointing out mistakes with clipped precision. His control was absolute; his voice never rose again. But beneath it all, Alden could feel the storm still humming in him, a warning for both of them.
He reached absently to adjust his sleeve—and froze.
A thin warmth trickled along the inside of his wrist. He glanced down. A faint red line had appeared just above the cuff of his robes, small but fresh, a bead of blood welling from the skin.
He frowned. There'd been no cut, no scrape, nothing. The skin there had healed months ago.
He rubbed at it once, but the blood smeared, bright against his fingertips. The mark pulsed faintly—almost like it remembered.
Across the room, Snape's voice broke through again. "Mr. Dreyse," he said sharply, not looking up from the potion he was correcting, "if you intend to stand there, do it quietly. Some of us are still attempting to teach."
Alden blinked, pulled his sleeve down quickly, the fabric catching faintly against the blood. "Yes, sir," he murmured.
He moved to an empty workbench, hands steadying on the stone surface. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Beneath the fabric, the line still burned—a memory written in scar tissue that should've been gone.
And as Snape's voice carried through the dungeon—smooth, measured, merciless—Alden wondered, distantly, if some wounds didn't heal at all. They only waited.
At first, it was only the single bead of blood, a bright ruby drop on his wrist. But then another joined it. And another.
Alden frowned, lifting his hand, but the sleeve was already sticking faintly to his skin. A slow trickle ran beneath the cuff, down his palm, and spattered darkly onto the stone. He swallowed hard, tugging the fabric higher—only to see fresh crimson spreading from a dozen hairline slits along his forearm.
His breath hitched. His vision tilted.
The scars had long healed. He'd checked them a hundred times over the summer. Yet they were there again now—thin white lines opening one by one, as though remembering the pain they'd once carried.
His head pulsed. The dungeon seemed to tilt. A warmth was spreading down his temple. He brushed it reflexively, and his fingertips came away red.
For a moment, they could only stare at them.
"Dreyse," Snape barked from the front of the room. "I said sit down or—"
He stopped.
The tone changed in an instant. Snape's wand was in his hand before the word fully died on his tongue, his face blanching as he saw the blood pooling beneath Alden's shoes. The rest of the class froze, wands halfway raised, spoons halfway stirred.
"Out," Snape said quietly.
No one moved.
"OUT!" he roared, the sound cracking through the dungeon like thunder.
Chairs scraped and toppled. The third-years bolted for the door, wide-eyed, clutching their bags. One Hufflepuff shrieked as a cauldron overturned and hissed into smoke, but Snape flicked his wand sharply, and the contents vanished with a pop. Steam curled, potion fumes dissipated in a rush of air that stung the nose.
He was at Alden's side in seconds.
"Where?" he demanded, gripping the boy's arm. His eyes swept the cuts—half-healed seams splitting open like threads torn loose. "How long?"
"I don't—" Alden's voice came out hoarse, distant. "It just started—"
Snape swore under his breath. He pressed a folded handkerchief against the worst of it, crimson blooming through the white almost instantly. "We're going to the hospital wing. Now. Can you walk?"
Alden nodded—then stumbled. The world wavered sideways. Snape caught him by the shoulder, his fingers gripping tight enough to bruise.
"Move, boy. Now."
They left the dungeon fast, Snape half-dragging him through the corridor. The torches blurred as they passed; Alden's boots squeaked faintly on the stone, each step leaving a dull red print that glistened wetly in their wake. His breath came in short bursts, uneven. It wasn't pain—it was something colder, stranger. A memory trying to claw its way back into his skin.
"Keep your eyes open," Snape snapped as they rounded a corner.
"I am," Alden muttered, though his voice was distant, slurred. "I just—everything's—"
The floor seemed to sway beneath him. The cuts burned hotter now, the same pattern—the cheek, the shoulder, his forearms, the back of his skull. The exact places Voldemort's spells had struck him that night.
He knew because he could feel them—the same flickers of heat and darkness, the same echo of a voice, cold and thin as steel: You will break before you die.
Snape's grip tightened.
"Dreyse."
Alden blinked. The corridor blurred.
Snape's jaw was tight as he half-shoved open the double doors to the hospital wing. "Poppy!" he shouted, voice slicing the quiet like a whip. "Now!"
Madam Pomfrey's head appeared from behind a curtain, her expression shifting instantly from irritation to alarm. "Merlin's sake, Severus—what—"
"Old wounds," Snape said curtly, steering Alden toward a bed. "They've reopened. All of them."
Pomfrey's eyes widened. "That's not possible—"
"Then explain this!"
He peeled back Alden's sleeve, revealing the web of fresh cuts. Blood soaked into the sheets the moment Alden sat. The matron's wand was already out.
"Lie back, Mr. Dreyse," she said firmly, her voice all brisk efficiency now. "Severus, pressure charm, upper arm."
Snape complied without a word, his usual distaste for being ordered around overridden by something far closer to fear. His wand moved in precise, surgical flicks, the bleeding slowing fractionally.
Pomfrey muttered an incantation, tracing glowing silver lines across the wounds. The light pulsed—and Alden gasped, his back arching slightly as the warmth shot through him, not soothing but stirring something buried deep.
It was like hearing the echoes of the graveyard again. The screams. The green light. The smell of ash and rot.
He clamped his teeth together and forced himself to breathe.
Pomfrey's brow furrowed. "They're not ordinary wounds," she murmured. "It's like the magic is remembering them."
Snape's expression was unreadable, but his eyes were cold and hard. "He said they were healed."
"They were," Alden managed, voice shaking. "They were gone."
Pomfrey shot Snape a look over Alden's head. "Gone isn't gone, Severus. Not with curses like those."
Snape's eyes flicked down at him, narrowing. "Then what's causing this now?"
Pomfrey didn't answer. She was already layering charm after charm, the air around them thick with the smell of metal and magic.
Alden tried to focus on the ceiling, but the edges of his vision were beginning to darken. The last thing he heard before it all went quiet was Snape's voice, low and furious—aimed not at him this time, but the world.
"If this is the Ministry's doing," he muttered, "then they've no idea what they've woken."