The storm had passed.
Sunlight poured through the enchanted ceiling, so clean and blue it looked almost artificial after the night before. The lake glittered like polished glass, and steam rose from the grounds where rain had drowned the grass. Inside the Great Hall, the morning light spilled across the tables, catching silverware and the sharp green trim of Slytherin robes.
For once, the Slytherin table was alive with chatter.Draco Malfoy was in his element again, dry, combed, and loud enough to reclaim his usual orbit of attention. Crabbe and Goyle hovered nearby, laughing half a beat too late at everything he said. A cluster of third-years hung on his every story, especially the one where he swore Moody had an entire chest full of Dark detector, "and one for sniffing cowards," he added, flashing a grin at Theo.
Theo arched an eyebrow over his tea. "In that case, I'm shocked it hasn't exploded sitting near you."
Draco sniffed, offended only on principle.
"You're just jealous he's an ex-Auror. The man's fought dark wizards."
Theo sipped his tea. "And lost an eye for it."
Laughter rippled down the table. Draco pretended not to hear.
At the end of the table sat Alden Drey, as quiet, still, as if the world moved around him rather than with him. His plate was neat, half-finished; his tea untouched but steaming, two sugars exactly as always. The green leather notebook lay open beside it, pages covered in narrow, precise handwriting.
Every now and then, someone's gaze drifted toward him, a younger student, a curious fifth-year, and each time it met the same unreadable calm. The effect was consistent: glances fell away, voices lowered.
Theo, breaking a roll in half, muttered,
"You do realize you terrify half the House without speaking?"
Alden didn't look up.
"Then I save time."
Draco laughed, half in admiration. "The Prophet should quote you for column titles."
The Hall's brightness softened for a moment as clouds drifted overhead. Across the room, the Gryffindor table hummed with its usual chaos, os toast flung, laughter echoed, and the occasional argument that sounded one quill-snap away from a duel.
Ron was midway through buttering three slices of toast at once when Hermione nudged him sharply.
"Don't stare."
He looked anyway. "I'm not staring, I'm—" his voice dropped, "—just checking if the rumors are true."
Hermione sighed. "Which ones?"
Neville, glancing nervously between them, whispered,
"That he froze a staircase last year. Or turned someone's wand into glass."
Harry didn't answer at first. His eyes were fixed on the far end of the Slytherin table where Alden sat, posture straight, silver-white hair catching every glint of light. Even from here, he radiated a strange sort of grav,ity not coldness exactly, but precision made visible.
Hermione followed his gaze.
"He doesn't look like a Dark wizard."
Ron made a face. "He looks like he should be teaching, not sitting there pretending he's better than everyone."
"He's not pretending," Hermione said quietly. "Look at him. He's… different."
Harry spoke finally.
"Malfoy talks. He doesn't. That's what makes people nervous."
The group fell silent for a moment, watching as Alden closed his notebook and set his spoon across his saucer at a perfect angle, the kind of small, deliberate movement that suggested nothing was accidental. Around him, conversation carried on: laughter, gossip, the scrape of knives on plates. But the air near him stayed oddly still.
Ron tore another bite of toast, muttering,
"Still think he's trouble. You can see it."
Hermione shook her head. "You can't see intent."
"Yeah?" Ron said. "Tell that to his hair."
Harry snorted, but the sound didn't quite become laughter. He glanced again, uneasy without knowing why. The sunlight caught the faint green sheen in Alden's eyes as he looked up, not at them, but through the Hall itself, as if measuring its symmetry.
Across the room, Alden's gaze shifted toward Draco, who was busy re-enacting Moody's supposed duel with a breadstick. Theo looked on in quiet despair.
"You'd think," Theo said, "after a night of near death by thunderstorm, we'd develop humility."
"We did," Draco said cheerfully. "I'm humble about how great I am."
Alden stood, smoothing his sleeve.
"Class in ten minutes."
Draco blinked. "Already? What's first?"
"Just divination today."
Theo groaned. "Perfect. From lightning to prophecies."
Alden turned toward the doors, voice calm, final.
"Then we'll see if intent still matters."
Draco and Theo exchanged looks, then followed him out, their laughter trailing behind, swallowed by the echo of the Great Hall doors closing.
The North Tower always felt a little too far from reason.The spiral stair creaked as they climbed, air growing warmer, thicker, until even Draco's commentary turned sluggish. By the time they reached the trapdoor, the scent of incense was already curling down like smoke from another world.
The Divination classroom glowed with a reddish haze. Lamps burned low through beaded curtains, cushions littered the floor, and teacups balanced precariously on brass saucers. The air shimmered with perfume and dust. Professor Trelawney presided from her armchair like a jeweled ghost, bangles glittering in the firelight.
Draco wrinkled his nose.
"Smells like a funeral in here."
Theo exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed.
"Frankincense. Good for focus."
"Good for headaches," Draco muttered. "This is witchcraft pretending to be science."
Alden said nothing. He stepped past the curtain, gaze sweeping the room on,ce the heavy fabrics, the flicker of heat distorting the air. Everything in here was the opposite of precision. The imprecision itself felt deliberate, like a spell to blur the mind.
Professor Trelawney's eyes found him immediately, magnified to saucers behind her thick glasses. The silver chains around her wrists chimed faintly as she gestured.
"Ah. Mr… Dreyse."
A hush passed through the room. Students leaned forward slightly; even Draco stopped smirking. Trelawney's voice softened into a near-whisper.
"The air around you—so bright, so cold. Such clarity can be a dangerous light, my dear. It blinds as easily as it reveals."
Draco leaned toward Theo, stage-whispering,
"She says that to everyone who does their hair properly."
Theo's quill barely moved, but his lips twitched.
Alden inclined his head politely.
"Then I'll try not to look directly at myself, Professor."
A few students snorted. Trelawney blinked, uncertain if she'd been mocked or complimented, then rustled her shawl and swept toward the front.
"My dears, today we study the celestial dance, the movement of the planets, and what they whisper of human destiny."
Draco muttered, "Mine's saying this period will last forever."
Theo, to Alden, low:
"You don't believe in prophecy?"
"Not without data."
"And stars don't count?"
"They're constant," Alden replied, eyes on his parchment. "Constancy predicts nothing but time."
The assignment was to map their natal chart, the positions of the planets at birth. Theo worked smoothly, his notes exact and symbols elegant. Alden's parchment, by contrast, stayed almost empty. He drew three circles, intersected them with a single line, and wrote only one word in neat green ink: Patternless.
Draco stared at it.
"That's your chart?"
"That's the universe."
"Remind me never to ask you for a birthday speech."
Theo looked up, half curious, half admiring. "You actually don't see anything?"
"No," Alden said. "But I see why others do. It's comforting to name the inevitable."
From the hearth, Trelawney's voice rose again, in tremulous, musical.
"The stars incline, my children, they do not compel. Yet even the wisest may be led astray by what they refuse to feel…"
Her gaze drifted back toward Alden, and her voice thinned.
"Yours is a chart of inversion. Where warmth should be, there is clarity. Where life should move forward, it reflects backward. I would not pry further."
Draco whispered, "Translation: she's terrified of you."
Alden closed his notebook. "Then she's observant."
The class dissolved into murmurs and suppressed laughter. When the bell rang, smoke still curled in the air, and everyone left smelling faintly of burnt sugar and mystery.
The air outside was mercifully sharp and clean. Draco stretched, coughing.
"If Divination's the future, I'll take ignorance."
Theo smiled faintly, tucking his chart away.
"It's still art just painted with vagueness."
Alden glanced at the sunlight through the narrow window.
"Then it belongs in a gallery, not a classroom."
"You didn't even try," Theo said.
"I did," Alden replied. "I measured belief and found it self-sustaining."
Draco frowned. "Meaning?"
"It survives on wanting to be right."
They walked on in silence for a moment, the echo of their shoes fading down the stairwell. Around them, the castle hummed quietly—alive, ordinary, pretending nothing ever lurked behind prophecy or curse.
But Alden knew better: everything unseen eventually demanded proof.
The evening light slanted through the castle windows like poured gold.Classes were over, the corridors filled with the hum of voices and the scuff of shoes against stone. The smell of parchment and dust lingered, chased by the faint chill of September air creeping in through the open doors to the grounds.
Theo and Alden rounded the corner from the main stairwell just as laughter rolled through the entrance hall. The crowd there was thick, students bunched near the notice boards, others leaning over the banisters, faces turned toward a single voice cutting clean through the chatter.
"Weasley! Hey, Weasley!"
Draco.
He stood at the center of the hall, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like bookends, a copy of the Daily Prophet unfurled in his hands. His grin was a performance: wide, theatrical, perfectly timed for maximum audience. Every sentence came out just loud enough to reach the top of the staircase.
"Your dad's in the paper, Weasley! Listen to this 'Further Mistakes at the Ministry of Magic"
Laughter stirred through the hall. Ron's ears burned red even from across the crowd; Harry stood tight-lipped beside him, Hermione at his shoulder.
Alden slowed to a halt, motion smooth, composed. Theo stopped beside him, frowning.
"You think he ever gets tired of hearing himself?" Theo muttered.
Alden's eyes stayed forward. "He enjoys reaction more than sound."
"So… no."
The hall crackled with attention as Draco went on, voice dripping with triumph.
"Arnold Weasley," he read, "of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—charged with possession of a flying car—was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers over a number of highly aggressive dustbins."
Draco looked up with a gleam in his eye.
"Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley. Almost as though he's a nonentity."
The laughter grew louder. Ron's hands clenched at his sides; Harry took a step forward before Hermione pulled him back.
Theo muttered, "He's going to get hexed."
Alden didn't move. He just watched, quiet, the way a man might study flame from a safe distance, not because it frightened him, but because he wanted to see how it burned.
Draco flipped the page theatrically, voice rising.
"And there's a picture of your parents outside their house!" He sneered the word. "Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?"
The hall went silent for a breath. The only sound was the soft crackle of torches on the walls.
Ron's knuckles whitened. Harry's voice cut through the stillness:
"Get stuffed, Malfoy."
"Oh yeah?" Draco shot back, delighted. "You were staying with them this summer, weren't you, Potter? Tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?"
A low murmur rolled through the hall: excitement, discomfort, and anticipation.
Theo glanced at Alden. "You're not going to stop him?"
"He doesn't need me," Alden said quietly. "He needs consequence."
The words came so calm they almost sounded merciful.
Draco was still smirking when Harry's retort landed like a thrown knife.
"You know your mother, Malfoy? That expression she's got, like she's got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?"
Laughter erupted, sharp and spontaneous. Draco's face flushed pink, mouth opening before words caught in his throat.
Theo winced softly. "Ah. There's the consequence."
Alden didn't smile. His eyes that pale, analytic green-grey flicked once from Draco to Harry, to the rippling crowd, then back again. In the chaos, he stood completely still, posture straight, coat immaculate amid the swarm of uniforms. Even students who didn't know his name felt the shift: the air around him seemed quieter somehow, like order reasserting itself after noise.
For a moment, no one spoke. It was just the flicker of torches, the heat of embarrassment, the faint scent of ink and dust.
Then Draco hissed, "Don't you dare insult my mother, Potter."
"Keep your fat mouth shut, then," Harry said, turning away.
The hex had barely left Draco's wand when the first bang split the air.
Light tore through the entrance hall, white, scorching, sending students stumbling back with cries of alarm. The marble shuddered underfoot.Then a second explosion cracked like thunder, shaking dust from the rafters.
"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!"
The voice rolled down the marble staircase like a curse given shape.
Professor Moody stood at the landing, cloak half-unfastened, mismatched eyes whirling. His wand was already raised, aimed directly at Draco Malfoy.
The crowd stilled, wide-eyed. Even Harry froze, the echo of that first spell still ringing in his bones.
Draco blinked, half in shock, wand still half-lifted. Then Moody snarled something under his breath, his wand flashing down.
But before the spell struck—another wand cut the air.
A second shimmer flared: pale green, clean, silent.It caught Moody's transfiguration charm mid-flight, the light folded inward, scattering in a hiss of frost and static before fading into nothing.
The hall went utterly still.
Alden Dreyse stood a few feet away, wand raised, expression unreadable. The reflection of torchlight slid like mercury across his eyes.
Moody's rolling eye whirled in his direction; the other fixed on him like a drawn blade.
"Who," Moody growled, "just blocked my spell?"
Alden lowered his wand by a fraction, not submission, but etiquette.
"I did," he said evenly. "You were about to transfigure a fourteen-year-old boy. In a school."
His tone wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Every syllable landed clean, clipped, polished steel, not defiance.
Moody's face twisted. "You think I don't know what I'm doing, son?"
"I think you've forgotten who you're aiming at."Alden's gaze didn't waver. "Tell me, Professor—how far have Aurors fallen that they cast punishment hexes on children before asking questions? No wonder the Ministry's slipping."
The words rippled through the hall like a gust of cold wind. Even the portraits went silent.
Theo exhaled softly behind him, half in disbelief. "Oh, he's doing it," he murmured.
Moody took a limping step forward, wooden leg thunking against the marble. His magical eye whirled fast, the other narrowing.
"You watch your tongue, boy. I've faced things that'd break your mind in two."
"Then it's unfortunate you learned nothing from them," Alden replied, still steady.He didn't raise his voice, didn't posture, just stood there, wand at his side, posture perfect, ca, lm radiating like a quiet storm. "Control distinguishes a wizard from a weapon, Professor. I expected an Auror to know the difference."
Gasps cut through tcrowd'sowd disbelief, awe, a few nervous laughs that died too soon.
Draco, still half-stunned, found his voice.
"Alden—he—he was going to—"
"Not now, Draco."Alden didn't look at him. "You brought yourself down to their level. I'll deal with you later."
Draco flushed but said nothing.
Moody's eye whirled faster, his scarred hand twitching on his wand.
"You fancy yourself clever, do you, Dreyse? Blocking an Auror's spell? Let's see how you do when I—"
"Enough," came another voice, crisp, authoritative.
Professor McGonagall was halfway down the stairs, books tumbling from her arms, eyes darting between them.
"Professor Moody, what are you doing?"
"Teaching," Moody growled, but his glare stayed locked on Alden.
McGonagall's eyes flicked to the unmoving boy. "Mr. Dreyse, what exactly is happening here?"
Alden inclined his head slightly, formal, unshaken.
"An overreaction, Professor. I corrected it."
"He interfered," Moody snapped. "That boy was about to hex Potter—"
"And you were about to hex him," Alden interrupted, just as evenly. "That doesn't make either of you right."
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Enough. Both of you lower your wands immediately."
Alden obeyed first, precise, almost ritual in the gesture. Moody followed a second later, the motion jerky, reluctant.
The room exhaled as though released from a charm. The students began whispering too quietly to hide it.
"He blocked Mad-Eye Moody—"
"Did you see his spell? No sound, no flare—"
"He called him out—said the Ministry's failing—"
Draco looked dazed, equal parts humiliated and impressed. Theo's hand was still halfway to his wand, like he couldn't believe he'd witnessed it.
McGonagall's gaze flicked between them again, her expression unreadable. "Detentions can be arranged later. All of you—go. Supper's started."
Moody grunted, glaring at Alden as he holstered his wand. "You've got nerve, boy. Let's hope it doesn't get you killed."
Alden met the look without blinking. "If it does, I'll die clear-headed."
He turned, the hem of his robes catching the light as he walked past Draco and Theo toward the Great Hall. The whispering followed him like a second cloak.
Thunder cracked again outside the tower windows, though the storm had long since passed.The air in Dumbledore's office felt still and heavy, the kind of stillness that came after r argument, or before it. The portraits pretended to sleep. The silver instruments on the shelves whirred uneasily, as if they too sensed something volatile in the air.
Alden stood at the center of the room, hands folded neatly behind his back. Despite the evening's chaos, his uniform was spotless, not a thread out of place.Behind him, the door clicked shut with deliberate weight.
Professor Snape lingered by the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Professor McGonagall stood near the hearth, thin-lipped, clutching a stack of papers that had long since stopped being useful.Moody paced like a wounded storm, his wooden leg thunking against the stone. And Dumbledore, calm, hands steepled before his chin, watched the boy as if studying a flame behind glass.
The Confrontation
Dumbledore: "Mr. Dreyse."
Alden inclined his head slightly.
Alden: "Headmaster."
Dumbledore: "You are aware, I presume, why you've been called here."
Alden: "Because I blocked an illegal use of Transfiguration on a student."
Moody stopped pacing. His normal eye fixed on Alden; the other spun madly, scanning the room like it wanted a target.
Moody: "You interfered with a professor, boy. With an Auror. In the middle of discipline."
Alden: "Correction," he said quietly. "You were not disciplining. You were demonstrating what fear does to authority."
Snape's eyes flickered, the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth not amusement, but restrained pride.McGonagall inhaled sharply.
McGonagall: "Mr. Dreyse, whatever you believe, Professor Moody's actions—"
Alden: "—could have permanently damaged a student's magical channel."He didn't raise his voice, didn't interrupt rudely; he spoke as though reciting an equation."Transfiguration against a conscious subject violates Section III of the Control Charter. It's Ministry regulation, is it not?"
Moody barked a humorless laugh.
Moody: "You think quoting laws makes you clever? I wrote part of that Charter, lad."
Alden: "Then you should remember it."
The silence after was absolute. Even Fawkes lifted his head slightly, feathers ruffling with tension.
Snape finally spoke, voice low, cutting through the air like a thin blade.
Snape: "Enough. I believe the boy's point has been made. What he did, he did effectively and without harm. Unlike others."
Moody's magical eye spun toward him. "You call that effective, Severus? He undermined me in front of the entire school."
Snape: "He prevented you from turning one of my students into livestock. Forgive him his manners."
McGonagall's voice trembled with composure.
McGonagall: "That's quite enough from both of you."Her gaze cut to Alden. "Mr. Dreyse, whether your intent was noble or not, it was reckless. The moment you drew your wand on a professor, you crossed a line."
Alden: "I didn't draw it on him, Professor. I drew it between him and an abuse of power."
McGonagall's lips pressed tighter. She had no reply for that that wouldn't sound hollow.
The Headmaster Speaks
Dumbledore finally rose, robes whispering against the floor as he stepped closer. His presence filled the room, not forceful, but immense, the kind that made lesser voices fade.
Dumbledore: "You have a sharp mind, Alden," he said softly. "And a dangerous tongue. Truth spoken without mercy can wound more than falsehood."
Alden met his gaze, eyes like polished steel.
Alden: "Truth shouldn't need permission."
Dumbledore studied him the steadiness, the absolute conviction. For a flicker, something unreadable passed through his expression recognition, maybe, or memory.
Dumbledore: "You believe control defines right from wrong. Intent over consequence."
Alden: "Intent defines understanding. Consequence defines competence."
The words landed with the quiet weight of philosophy practiced, unshaken.
Moody snorted. "You hear that? He talks like a bloody manifesto."
Dumbledore didn't look away.
Dumbledore: "Be that as it may, Hogwarts is not a battlefield of ideas. Nor is it the place to challenge the Ministry, however flawed you find it. You will keep your opinions to yourself, am I understood?"
Alden nodded once. "Yes, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's voice softened, but there was steel under it now.
Dumbledore: "You remind me of someone who once said much the same. He believed too strongly in clarity. It left him blind."
A pause. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree.
Alden's tone didn't shift, but his eyes did something quiet, almost sorrowful flicker behind them.
Alden: "Then perhaps I'll learn where he didn't."
The words lingered long after he finished. Even the portraits seemed to draw breath.
The Resolution
McGonagall was the first to move.
McGonagall: "Headmaster, if I may, perhaps this should end with a warning. Mr. Dreyse has clearly understood the gravity—"
Moody: "A warning? He embarrassed an Auror in front of half the bloody school!"
Snape: "Then consider the lesson mutual."
Moody's good eye twitched. Dumbledore raised a hand, ending it with a single, quiet gesture.
Dumbledore: "Enough. There will be no punishment. Not this time. The school year is young, and wisdom comes best before scars."
He turned to Alden. "But understand me well: silence is not weakness. Sometimes it's the most powerful spell you can cast."
Alden inclined his head again, not humbled, merely respectful.
Alden: "Then I'll use it wisely."
Dumbledore's gaze softened, but didn't lose its depth. "See that you do."
Snape moved forward, hand closing briefly on Alden's shoulder, er the faintest touch, private and wordless. "Come."
As they left, Moody muttered, "Slippery little serpent. Mark my words, that boy's got Grindelwald's handwriting all over him."
McGonagall's silence was her disapproval. Dumbledore didn't answer at all.
When the door closed, the Headmaster let out a slow breath.
Dumbledore: "Severus is right," he said quietly, mostly to himself. "He's effective… and frighteningly so."
Fawkes trilled once, a clear, single note, and the room fell silent again.
The castle had gone to sleep by the time they left the Headmaster's office.The corridors breathed with the soft hum of enchantments settling for the night, portraits murmured in their frames, and torches guttered low. Rain tapped faintly against the high windows, patient and constant.
Snape walked ahead, his robes whispering over the flagstones.Alden followed half a step behind, silent, hands clasped behind his back, every movement controlled as ever. Their footsteps echoed through the stairwells like twin heartbeats.
They didn't speak until they'd reached the lower corridors where the air grew colder, heavier with damp stone and the faint mineral scent of the lake pressing against the walls.
Snape finally said, without turning,
"You're fortunate I argued louder than Moody."
Alden's voice came quiet but clear.
"He wanted me expelled."
"He demanded it," Snape corrected, the word sharp as glass. "Dumbledore reminded him that Hogwarts is a school, not a Ministry courtroom. I reminded him that he's not the only one who knows what a wand is for."
A faint silence followed respectfully, unshocked.
"Thank you, Professor."
Snape's reply came curt, but not cold.
"Don't thank me. Learn from it."
They turned a corner, torches flickering as a draught swept the hall. The silence stretched again before Snape spoke, lower now, the tone shifting from authority to something nearer fatigue.
"What you did in the entrance hall—" he began, "—was both admirable and idiotic."
Alden looked sideways, waiting.
"Admirable," Snape continued, "because you defended your House. Slytherin may have ambition and cunning, but loyalty to one's own is rarer than people think. You showed it even if you don't realize that's what you did."
A pause. The only sound was the echo of their steps.
"Idiotic," Snape went on, "because you were one decision away from giving the Ministry exactly what it wants, a reason to fear you."
Alden's tone stayed measured.
"They already do."
"And you feed that fear every time you prove them right," Snape snapped, then exhaled through his nose, softer. "You're clever enough to know how perception works. Don't be foolish enough to ignore it."
Alden nodded once.
"I'll remember."
Snape's mouth twitched not quite approval, not quite annoyance. "You should have let me handle Moody."
"He was wrong," Alden said simply.
"So are most people. That doesn't mean you duel them in public."
They passed the last turning before the dungeon stair. The air thickened with the faint green sheen of the lake's filtered light. Snape's tone shifted again, quietly and privately.
"When you spoke about the Ministry…" he said, glancing at him, "you meant it."
"Yes."
"You believe they're failing."
"They fear what they can't measure," Alden replied. "So they label it dark and pretend that's control."
Snape stopped walking. The torchlight caught both their faces, one pale and young, one drawn and sharp.
"Be careful where you say that," Snape murmured. "Some will hear a philosopher. Others will hear a threat. And I've seen what happens when a mind like yours forgets which it sounds like."
Alden met his eyes. "You think I'll become him."
Snape didn't answer immediately. Then softly,
"I think you'll be yourself if you're careful. And that may be worse… or better."
They resumed walking. The stone door to the Slytherin common room loomed ahead, its carved serpents faintly gleaming. Snape stopped there, folding his arms.
"And," Snape added, "you'll apologize to Moody. In form, not in feeling. There's a difference, and I expect you to know it."
A flicker of dry humor touched Alden's mouth.
"Form without feeling. I believe I can manage that."
"I know," Snape said quietly. "That's what worries me."
The password hissed; the stone door slid open. Warm green light spilled out, rippling across the walls like water.
"Go," Snape said. "Before I change my mind."
Alden paused on the threshold.
"Good night, Professor."
Snape gave the barest nod of approval disguised as indifference and turned back toward the corridor.
When the door sealed shut, the echo of his steps lingered a long while in the dark, fading slowly into the quiet hum of the lake above.
The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual that night.The hour was late, but no one had gone to bed. The fire burned low, throwing green light across the black stone floor, and the murmur of the lake pressed faintly against the glass ceiling like a heartbeat.
Draco was pacing near the hearth, hands shoved deep in his robes, his reflection flickering across the serpentine mantel.Theo sat at one of the long tables with a book open and unread, eyes occasionally flicking to the door.Crabbe and Goyle hovered nearby, restless, their usual smirks replaced with uncertainty. Even in the younger years, a handful of second- and third-years lingered in the corners, whispering.
"He's not coming back," Draco said finally, though his tone lacked conviction. "You heard what Moody said? Dumbledore can't protect him from that."
"You think Dumbledore protects anyone?" Theo said, voice mild. "He observes."
"Well, then he's observing Alden pack his trunk," Draco snapped.
Theo didn't look up. "You sound worried."
"I'm not worried. I'm—" Draco stopped. "—annoyed."
Theo smirked faintly. "Those two are often related."
Before Draco could answer, the wall shifted, the carved serpents along the stone door stirred and split apart with a hiss. The door slid open.
Alden stepped through.
He looked exactly as he had when he left: immaculate, calm, every motion measured. The air seemed to change with him, the murmurs cut off, and even the fire dimmed, as though the room adjusted its rhythm to him.
Draco turned instantly. "Merlin's sake, you're alive."
"Mostly," Alden said, voice low but steady.
"They didn't—" Draco hesitated, then dropped his tone. "They didn't expel you?"
"Not this evening."
Laughter rippled, faintly nervous, disbelieving. Crabbe let out a grunt that might have been relief. Theo just closed his book, watching quietly.
Draco stepped closer, his voice a mix of irritation and genuine concern.
"You could have told them toI don't knowhandle it better! You didn't need to—"
"Interfere?" Alden finished, glancing sideways. "Yes, I did. But it won't happen again."
Draco blinked. "You're serious?"
"Completely." Alden crossed to the hearth, the flickering green fire painting his pale features in strange, cold relief. "Next time you drag your family's name into a public brawl, you'll finish it yourself. I won't stand between you and consequence again."
Draco stiffened, pride rising, then faltered when he caught Alden's tone: calm, not cruel, the tone of someone issuing instruction, not judgment.
"You think I need defending?"
"I think you need restraint." Alden met his gaze. "You don't prove your worth by picking fights with people who live off outrage. It makes you smaller."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was heavy. Draco's jaw worked, but no words came. Theo leaned back slightly, watching like a man cataloguing history in real time.
"You really told Moody the Ministry was failing?" one of the younger boys whispered, awe in his voice.
Alden's eyes flicked toward him. "I told him what he already knew. He just didn't like hearing it."
Theo's smile was small, thoughtful. "You do realize the entire House is going to be talking about that by morning."
"They already are," Alden said simply. "Rumor travels faster than logic."
Draco muttered, "Half the castle probably thinks you hexed Moody."
"Half the castle's always thought something." Alden set his wand down on the table, movements deliberate. "Let them. It's easier than explaining."
Theo tilted his head. "You used to care about precision. About how things were perceived."
"Precision and perception aren't the same," Alden said. "Precision describes reality. Perception invents it."
Theo considered that. "And which one do you want to control?"
A faint glint crossed Alden's eyes, not amusement, but a kind of acknowledgment. "Whichever wins."
That earned a soft murmur from the others. Someone whispered his name like it meant something more, not rumor, not fear, but myth taking shape.
Draco, still standing by the fire, finally said, quieter this time,
"You didn't have to risk that for me."
"I didn't." Alden met his eyes. "I did it for us."
The words landed differently, heavier. Not sentimental, but binding.In the reflection of the firelight, Theo caught something in Draco's expression: not gratitude, not exactly, but realization. A shift. The moment he understood Alden wasn't just another ally, he was becoming the standard.
A younger Slytherin, in a third year, broke the silence, voice hesitant.
"What did Dumbledore say to you?"
Alden's gaze drifted toward the window, where the lake pressed darkly against the glass. The rippling light brushed over his face, silver and green.
"He told me to keep my opinions to myself."
"And will you?" Theo asked.
Alden's reply came like a soft incantation.
"No."
The room didn't laugh this time.It just fell quiet again, that heavy, almost reverent silence that follows when people realize a rumor has just become real.
Theo closed his book for good. Draco dropped into a chair across from Alden, no longer pacing.The fire burned lower, and outside, the lake stirred faintly, as if listening.