The castle was still half-asleep when the Slytherins returned from breakfast, the echoes of the morning assembly lingering like smoke in the corridors. The whispers that had chased Alden through the Great Hall now drifted behind him like a second cloak—soft, venomous, and ever-present.
By the time they reached the entrance to the dungeons, the chill had deepened. The stone walls seemed to hum faintly with the low thrum of the lake pressing against them, greenish light glinting in long, rippling streaks along the floor.
The Slytherin common room was awake before most of the castle. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting wavering reflections against the dark water outside the tall, glass windows. The usual murmur of voices filled the space—prefects checking patrol rosters, quills scratching across parchment, the soft clink of teacups on saucers.
Draco Malfoy was holding court near the fire, his Prefect badge gleaming proudly. Pansy Parkinson, perched neatly beside him, was adjusting the folds of her robes, the pink bow in her hair a rare flicker of colour among the green and black. Theo Nott sat opposite them, reading the Daily Prophet spread wide across his knees, while Daphne and Tracey Davis claimed the corner table by the window, parchment and ink already laid out in neat precision.
Alden entered quietly. The conversation faltered for half a second—just long enough to be noticed—before resuming in hushed tones. His boots made no sound on the cold flagstones as he crossed to the window, unrolling his sleeves with an absent flick of his fingers.
Theo folded his paper and spoke without looking up.
"They've confirmed it," he said. "The Lineage Integrity Authority arrives next week. Interviews and evaluations—Ministry's words, not mine."
The faintest lift of Alden's brow. "Evaluations?"
Theo gave a dry laugh. "They're calling it ensuring the safety of the educational environment. In other words, a witch-hunt with paperwork."
Pansy shifted uneasily, though she tried to hide it behind a smirk.
"Well… perhaps it's for the best. If they're coming, at least it proves they're serious about security. I mean—" she hesitated, eyes flicking guiltily toward Alden "—there's been so much talk. Maybe this will quiet people down."
"Yes," Daphne said coolly, "nothing quiets people like public persecution."
Pansy flushed. "I didn't mean it like that. I just—"
"You meant the Ministry wants to look useful," Theo interrupted mildly, turning a page. "And Alden's the perfect headline."
Draco, who had been staring moodily into the fire, finally stirred. "It's ridiculous. My father says the L.I.A. was created to scare people into obedience, not find truth. If they're really sending them here…" He trailed off, realizing the weight of his words.
"Then even Hogwarts isn't safe," Alden finished for him, voice quiet but firm.
That silenced the room. Only the crackle of the fire filled the pause.
Tracey, ever the peacemaker, leaned forward on her elbows. "Still, we can't do anything about it now. O.W.L.s, homework, Umbridge breathing down everyone's neck—we've enough battles already."
"I'm not fighting," Alden said softly, almost to himself. "I'm watching."
Theo folded the Prophet shut with a snap. "Call it whatever you want. They'll call it rebellion the moment you breathe wrong."
"Then I'll make sure I breathe correctly," Alden replied, with the faintest curve of a smile.
Pansy tried to return it, though worry flickered behind her painted composure. "You really think you can charm them? The Ministry?"
Alden's gaze met hers. His eyes, pale grey-green, caught the light from the lake and seemed almost luminescent.
"Charm them? No. But I can make them listen. They'll come expecting a monster. I'll give them a mirror instead."
The words lingered in the air like frost.
Draco cleared his throat, rising from his seat and straightening his robes. "Well, we'd better get moving. Flitwick's class first, and if I'm late again, he'll make me charm teacups until my wand snaps."
Theo grinned. "That would be tragic—for the teacups."
Tracey laughed under her breath. Even Pansy managed a genuine smile this time. The tension eased, if only slightly, as they gathered their books and stepped out into the corridor, the green glow of the common room fading behind them.
Alden lingered last, glancing once more at the window where the dark water pressed like an unblinking eye. For a moment, the faint reflection of his own face stared back at him—indistinct, silver-haired, ghostly.
"Next week," he murmured, almost inaudible, "let's see what the Ministry calls a monster."
Then he turned and followed the others up toward the light of the castle's waking halls.
The Charms corridor smelled faintly of chalk dust and lavender polish, the sort of scent that always clung to classrooms too well kept for comfort. Students shuffled past in half-hearted chatter, clutching books thicker than their patience. A trail of parchment scraps followed Theo like breadcrumbs, the result of his perpetual insistence that notes should be rewritten after class, not before.
Alden walked among them silently, his stride unhurried despite the stares that trailed after him. Conversations dipped wherever he passed. A few students pretended not to notice him at all—others stared openly, as though daring him to turn his head.
"Don't mind them," Daphne murmured beside him, voice low and even. "They'll get bored eventually."
Alden's expression didn't change. "People rarely get bored with fear."
Pansy sighed, looping her arm through his in a gesture of practiced brightness. "Then we'll just have to give them something else to talk about—like how unfairly handsome we all are."
Theo, deadpan: "Yes, that will surely distract them from the blood purity debates."
Draco snorted as they rounded the corner into Professor Flitwick's classroom. "Don't listen to him, Alden. He's jealous your hair actually behaves."
"Behaves?" Tracey laughed. "It glows in candlelight. It's practically its own spell."
"Tragic, really," Alden replied, with faint dryness. "The price one pays for infamy."
Flitwick stood on his customary stack of books behind his desk, wand already in hand, eyes twinkling at the new arrivals. The little professor was almost vibrating with enthusiasm as the Slytherins filed in.
"Ah, fifth years!" he squeaked. "Do come in, do come in! Yes, yes—take your seats quickly, please! We've a great deal to cover today."
The class settled. Wands clattered softly against tabletops; parchment unfurled. Flitwick flicked his wand, and the chalkboard behind him scribbled to life with O.W.L. Preparation – Summoning Charms Review.
"Now then," he began, voice bright and formal, "as you know, your O.W.L. examinations are no small matter! The results will follow you well into your professional careers. Some of you may even have your future Departments of Magic watching your scores very closely indeed."
A knowing glance flickered over Alden, though kindly rather than cruelly. "Which is why," Flitwick continued, "I expect all of you to give today's review your full attention."
He flicked his wand, and the room came alive: cushions, quills, and books began zooming from shelf to desk, fluttering in graceful arcs like well-trained birds.
"Now then—Accio!" Flitwick cried, demonstrating. A stack of parchment zipped neatly into his tiny hands. "Simple in theory, complex in precision. I want accuracy, not chaos!"
Pairs of students began muttering incantations, their wands twitching uncertainly. Quills spun, inkpots wobbled, and one unfortunate cushion exploded into a cloud of feathers.
Alden raised his wand with no apparent focus at all. His tone was soft, almost casual.
"Accio quill."
The quill flew across the room in a perfect straight line and landed, point-first, into the inkpot in front of him. Not a single drop spilled.
A hush followed.
Flitwick's face lit up like a lantern. "Marvelous, Mr. Dreyse! Such precision! Notice, everyone, the control—not simply power, but focus!"
A few students clapped half-heartedly, but most only exchanged looks. Someone muttered, "Probably cheated," under their breath.
Theo leaned sideways in his chair. "You do realize you've just made it worse?"
Alden didn't look up from his parchment. "They'd find a reason regardless."
Flitwick was moving down the aisles, correcting postures and murmured vowels. "No, no, Ms. Davis, your wrist must guide, not command. Think gentle invitation, not force."
Tracey tried again; her quill skittered halfway before plummeting. Daphne caught it neatly in midair with a whisper of Arresto Momentum and handed it back, deadpan: "I believe it preferred me."
Tracey swatted her arm, laughing.
In the back, Pansy and Draco were whispering in mock seriousness.
"Accio hairbrush," Pansy said under her breath."Accio modesty," Draco shot back, grinning.
Flitwick spun around instantly. "Mr. Malfoy! Miss Parkinson! You may Accio yourselves to detention if you continue that."
A ripple of laughter spread, easing the room's stiffness for a moment. Even Alden allowed the faintest curl of amusement.
When the lesson ended, Flitwick dismissed them with a cheerful, "Do practice tonight! I expect every last one of you to summon something more impressive than breakfast crumbs tomorrow morning!"
As they filed out, Draco groaned. "More homework. As if O.W.L.s weren't torture enough."
Theo held up the Prophet he'd smuggled into his satchel. "At least homework can't interrogate you."
Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Yet."
They reached the corridor, where the light slanted in pale shafts through the narrow dungeon windows. Alden paused for a moment, letting the laughter fade behind him.
From further down the hall came the faint sound of whispers again—different voices this time, older, sharper.
"The L.I.A.'s coming next week, right?""Bet Dreyse doesn't make it to Christmas.""He'll hex them before they even ask a question."
Alden glanced toward the sound, just once. Then, quietly, he continued walking.
Theo fell into step beside him. "Not going to say anything?"
"To what end?" Alden said. "If they're that eager for a villain, I'd hate to spoil their imagination."
Pansy brushed his sleeve lightly as they passed into the next stairwell. "Let them talk, Alden. We know who you are."
"That's the problem," he murmured. "So do they."
And as they climbed toward the next floor, the light from above grew brighter—but colder too, the kind of brightness that offered no warmth at all.
The corridors of the upper floors shimmered with shifting morning light as Alden and the others ascended toward the Transfiguration classroom. The murmur of students filled the air—half complaints about Flitwick's homework, half excited whispers about the rumors spreading like spilled ink.
"They say the Lineage Authority's bringing wands that detect cursed blood," a third-year Slytherin whispered as they passed."What does that even mean?" his friend hissed."Means Dreyse'll set it on fire before it gets close," came the reply.
Theo's jaw tightened. "They're getting creative."
Alden said nothing, hands in his pockets, eyes straight ahead. There was a particular rhythm to these whispers now—he'd learned to hear them the way others heard wind in leaves. Constant, shapeless, impossible to stop.
When they entered Professor McGonagall's classroom, the air changed at once. It was colder here, more focused, the faint scent of parchment and transfigured wood thick in the room. The desks gleamed under the morning light streaming through the tall windows. McGonagall stood at the front, her tartan robes drawn sharply around her, wand tucked beneath one arm like a baton.
"Sit down, please," she said crisply as they entered. "Books out. Wands ready."
The Gryffindors were already seated on the left-hand side, faces turning as the Slytherins arrived. Hermione Granger's quill hovered over her parchment, already poised to take notes. Harry's eyes flicked briefly to Alden—less in suspicion than curiosity—while Ron leaned over to mutter something that made Seamus snicker.
Daphne led the Slytherins to the far row, followed by Alden, Theo, and Tracey. Pansy and Draco took the front corner desk, looking smug simply for having beaten Gryffindor to the best seats.
McGonagall surveyed the room like a general before battle.
"Now," she began, "as Professor Flitwick has no doubt already reminded you, your O.W.L. examinations will be the foundation upon which your futures are built. Therefore, we shall waste no time."
She tapped her wand against her palm, and a dozen small wooden boxes lifted off her desk and began distributing themselves down the rows. Each box opened mid-air, revealing a collection of twitching snails that glistened faintly in the light. A few students grimaced.
"Today we begin work on Vanishing Spells."
A murmur swept through the class. Everyone knew Vanishing was N.E.W.T.-level difficulty—delicate, technical, the sort of magic that separated those who understood transformation from those who merely imitated it.
"Now," McGonagall continued briskly, "the incantation is Evanesco. Clear your minds—if you attempt this half-heartedly, you will have half a snail. Which is a very unpleasant sight."
A few nervous laughs scattered.
"Focus on the transference of matter. You are not destroying the snail, but changing its location entirely. Precision above all."
Her wand flicked, and the snail before her vanished in a shimmer of silver light, leaving only a faint outline of steam on the desk.
"Your turn."
Wands lifted. The room filled with the low hum of muttered incantations, the sharp flicks and swishes of intent colliding. Sparks burst from several desks—Theo's snail exploded into a puff of mucus, earning a disgusted groan from Tracey. Pansy's snail melted halfway through the spell, now half-invisible and still crawling, to her horror.
"Oh, Merlin's sake—DRAKE, DO SOMETHING!" she cried.
Draco flinched backward, holding up his wand. "I'm not touching that thing!"
"You're a Prefect!"
"Not of creatures from nightmares!"
The class erupted in laughter, and even McGonagall's lips twitched before she cleared her throat.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, control yourselves."
Meanwhile, Alden's snail sat perfectly still on his desk. He hadn't even drawn his wand yet. His hand hovered above it, fingertips tracing faint sigils in the air. Then, in one fluid motion, he lifted the wand and murmured:
"Evanesco."
The snail vanished instantly, leaving the desk pristine. Not a scorch mark, not a shimmer. Pure absence.
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint scratching of Hermione's quill as she noted down his result.
McGonagall approached, peering down her spectacles with the faintest air of approval.
"Flawless, Mr. Dreyse," she said. "It seems the art of Transfiguration agrees with you."
"It demands control," Alden replied evenly. "Control and intention."
"Yes," she said, holding his gaze. "And restraint. Two sides of the same coin."
Something unreadable passed between them—a silent understanding, sharp as glass and gone as quickly. McGonagall turned back to the class.
"Five points to Slytherin. Now, the rest of you—keep at it! Vanishing requires patience, not luck."
The chatter resumed. Daphne leaned over toward Alden.
"You realize you just made every Gryffindor here hate you, right?"
Alden's quill began scratching notes across his parchment. "They already did. Now they'll respect it."
Theo smirked. "Respect or envy—it's the same thing when it comes from Gryffindor."
At the front, Draco was still trying to calm Pansy, who had wrapped her half-invisible snail in a napkin like a dying pet.
"If that thing bites me, I swear—"
"It doesn't have a mouth anymore, Pansy!" Draco hissed.
Laughter rippled again, and McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Malfoy, if you and Miss Parkinson are quite finished—?"
The bell rang before she could continue. Relief flooded the room as students began packing up, muttering about homework and how impossible the spell was.
As they filtered into the corridor, Theo caught up with Alden.
"You know, if you keep showing everyone up, the Ministry won't have to accuse you of anything. The school will do it for them."
"If competence is guilt," Alden said dryly, "then I'll plead guilty early."
Draco, who'd overheard, scoffed. "If you're confessing crimes, start with making me look bad in front of McGonagall."
"That was self-inflicted," Daphne murmured.
"I hate all of you," Draco muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
As they descended the stairs toward lunch, the whispers followed again, echoing faintly against the stone. But this time, Alden barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere—on McGonagall's words, on the sharp edge between control and restraint.
Both necessary. Both dangerous.
And one, sooner or later, would have to give.
The afternoon had cooled into a pale, silvery light that drifted across the sloping lawns. A soft breeze swept up from the lake, carrying the smell of damp grass and woodsmoke. Cloaks fluttered as students trudged down the hill toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Professor Grubbly-Plank stood waiting beside a long trestle table piled with what looked suspiciously like bundles of twigs.
The Gryffindors had arrived first, their chatter loud and uneven, but it died off the moment the Slytherins appeared over the rise. The air seemed to tighten; conversation stuttered into silence, broken only by the crunch of boots on grass.
Alden walked at the center of the Slytherin group, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. The wind ruffled his silver-white hair, glinting faintly in the dim light. Around him, his friends formed a loose orbit—Theo with his usual sardonic calm, Daphne serene but watchful, Tracey humming softly under her breath, and Pansy whispering something to Draco that made him grin like a cat with cream.
Grubbly-Plank clapped her gloved hands together.
"Right then! We'll start at once—no need to waste daylight. Everyone step closer, please."
Her voice carried easily, brisk and practical, cutting through the murmuring like the crack of a whip.
"These," she said, gesturing to the bundles of twigs, "are Bowtruckles. They live in wand-wood trees—highly territorial, small but vicious when provoked. Handle with care."
She scattered a handful of what looked like brown rice over the table; several of the twigs leapt upright, revealing themselves to be tiny, sticklike creatures with bright, beady eyes and long, spindly fingers.
A few students gasped. Lavender Brown squealed. The creatures twitched, blinking in irritation.
"Five points from Gryffindor for unnecessary dramatics," said Grubbly-Plank crisply. "Now, who can tell me what they eat?"
Hermione's hand shot into the air, of course.
"Wood lice," she said, barely waiting to be called on.
"Correct," said Grubbly-Plank. "Five points. Wood lice, or fairy eggs if they're lucky."
Alden crouched beside the table, observing the nearest Bowtruckle with quiet fascination. Its bark-like face was folded in on itself, wary, its twig-fingers twitching like antennae. He tilted his head slightly, murmuring as though to himself.
"See the grain across its chest? Oak, not ash. Stronger magical conductivity. It'd bond easily with Thestral hair—rare, but not impossible."
Theo gave him a sideways look. "You're analyzing tree guardians the way people analyze broom models."
"Everything has a structure," Alden said mildly. "Even life."
Daphne crouched beside him, chin resting on her hand. "You sound like Snape dissecting a potion ingredient."
"That's because I'm learning from the best."
Across the table, Draco had taken full advantage of his Prefect badge, lounging back with arms crossed while the Gryffindors gathered their Bowtruckles.
"Careful, Potter," he called lazily. "Wouldn't want to injure yourself. Though I suppose your friend Hagrid's the one who's hurt this time, isn't he?"
Harry's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Only that he's been gone rather a while, hasn't he? Maybe he got lost in his own beard."
Pansy's laughter rang sharp and high, echoed by Crabbe's thick guffaw. Even a few Gryffindors grimaced—not at the insult, but at how easily Draco could still command the room.
"Enough, Mr. Malfoy!" barked Grubbly-Plank. "Or you'll be feeding the Bowtruckles with your own fingernails."
Draco ducked his head, smirking. "Yes, Professor."
Alden said nothing. He only watched—the way Harry's jaw clenched, the way his fists curled at his sides, the way every set of eyes seemed to shift between them: the heir of Grindelwald and the boy who lived.
They expect me to join in, he realized. Or to lash out. Anything to prove their story true.
Instead, he turned back to his Bowtruckle, gently extending a hand. The creature twitched once, then clambered onto his fingers, surprisingly light, its twig limbs cool and dry.
Theo blinked. "How did you—?"
"Respect," Alden murmured. "It recognizes it."
"Or it recognizes power," Daphne said quietly, though her tone held no fear—just observation.
Tracey leaned closer, watching the Bowtruckle peer up at him. "You talk about monsters like you aren't one."
Alden smiled faintly, eyes never leaving the creature.
"That's because I know better."
The Bowtruckle blinked its beetle-brown eyes, tapping one finger against his thumb as if in agreement before scuttling back to the table.
Grubbly-Plank was making her rounds, offering brisk comments and snatching up the occasional escaping Bowtruckle. She stopped beside Alden's group, peering over her spectacles.
"Well," she said, "you've managed not to lose an eye. That's a first for Slytherin."
"We learn quickly," Alden replied politely.
"See that you do," she said, and moved on.
Draco was still talking—something about how his father had met with the Minister, and how the Ministry was planning a proper reform of Hogwarts soon. The words filtered across the clearing like sour smoke.
Theo rolled his eyes. "He'll choke on his father's name one of these days."
"Let him talk," Alden said, brushing his hands off. "Some people only know how to feel important when they're echoing someone louder."
Daphne's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. "And what about you?"
"I don't echo," he said simply. "I wait."
The bell rang faintly in the distance, the sound carried by the wind from the castle. Students began gathering their things, Bowtruckles returned to their cages, and conversation broke out in relieved chatter.
As they started up the hill, Pansy chattered about dinner, Theo muttered about homework, and Draco trailed just behind, still boasting about his "connections." But Alden's eyes lingered once more on the forest edge—the dark tangle of branches swaying softly in the breeze.
He wondered, briefly, what it felt like to live among creatures that gouged out eyes when threatened—and whether, perhaps, they had the right idea.