The next morning, Hogwarts woke talking.
The Great Hall shimmered with early gold; sunlight spilled through enchanted windows, glancing off goblets and silver plates, scattering light like gossip. Owls wheeled overhead, dropping letters, toast, and the occasional startled feather. Students leaned over tables in clusters, their voices rising, dropping, colliding. Whatever the topic of breakfast had been, it was gone now.
Every table hummed with the same name.
"Dreyse."
The word carried like static,c sharp, charged, whispered by mouths that didn't know its weight.
At the Gryffindor table, Dean leaned forward on his elbows.
"I heard he disarmed Moody."
Seamus snorted through his pumpkin juice.
"You can't disarm Moody. He sleeps with his wand under his eye."
"Well, my cousin says her brother's friend was there," Dean pressed. "Said Dreyse caught the spell midair. It—" he made a vague exploding motion "—shattered."
Hermione lowered her paper. "That's not even theoretically possible. You can't catch a Transfiguration charm, it's anchored by intent."
Ron muttered, "Neither's blocking an Auror and getting away with it, but here we are."
Harry didn't look up from his toast. His voice came quietly. "He didn't look scared."
Hermione frowned. "You saw him?"
"Last night. Just before Moody…" He stopped, eyes unfocused. "He looked at him like—like he was disappointed."
Across from them, Neville shivered. "They're saying he's cursed. That the ghosts won't go near him."
"Oh, honestly," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "He's not cursed—"
"Tell that to the Slytherins," Seamus muttered. "They act like he's some kind of general."
Ron scoffed, "He's a creep, that's what he is. Walks like he's at a funeral. Bet he practices curses in his sleep."
Hermione didn't reply this time. She folded her napkin with careful precision, the kind of silence that meant she didn't quite disagree.
At the Ravenclaw table, the speculation took on academic tones.
"He used an inversion principle," said a fifth-year, tapping the table with his quill. "A defensive fold, that's how you neutralize without backlash."
"That's not in any textbook," replied another. "And if it were, Flitwick would've mentioned it."
"Maybe he wrote it," came the whisper. A third student added quietly, "My brother said he reads arithmancy tomes at breakfast. For fun."
They all turned instinctively toward the Slytherin table.
Alden sat there, perfectly composed, book open beside his plate, the Arithmantic Correlations of Modern Warding Theory. His posture was straight, his uniform immaculate. He moved like a metronome: buttering toast, turning pages, sipping tea.
He didn't glance once at the stares. Around him, the world tilted and swirled murmurs, looks, rustling, and he didn't seem to notice.
Draco leaned close, voice low but incredulous.
"You do realize half the castle thinks you duel professors for sport now."
Alden didn't look up. "Half the castle exaggerates to avoid homework."
Theo, across from them, smirked. "It's quite the collection, though. I've heard you hexed Moody's leg off, argued Ministry law, and declared war on the Auror's Office. Personally."
Alden turned a page. "That last one sounds inefficient."
Draco sighed, stabbing at his eggs. "You're impossible, you know that? I spent half the night thinking you'd been expelled. And you just—read."
"Panic is rarely productive," Alden said mildly.
Theo chuckled. "You really don't care?"
"I care that my tea's going cold."
The corner of Theo's mouth twitched. "You're aware the more you act like you don't care, the worse the rumors get, right?"
Alden finally looked up. His eyes were pale green-grey, steady, quiet light through glass.
"Theo, if I chased every rumor, I'd spend my life talking to ghosts."
Theo blinked. "Ghosts?"
"They all repeat what someone else told them. They vanish when you stop listening."
Draco smirked despite himself. "That's almost poetic."
"Accident," Alden said, returning to his book.
A few seats down, younger Slytherins whispered behind their hands.
"My sister says he froze Moody's spell in midair—like ice."No, he reversed it! That's why the torches flickered."He told Dumbledore the Ministry's falling apart."And they let him stay."
The murmuring carried down the table. Even Crabbe and Goyle, for once, looked uneasy, yes, darting between Draco and Alden, unsure which version of the truth they were supposed to believe.
Theo leaned back, watching the hall. "They're rewriting you already."
"They'll tire of me soon enough," Alden said, brushing a crumb from his sleeve. "By Friday, someone will explode a cauldron in Potions. Priorities will shift."
"You sound certain," Draco said.
"Rumor runs on momentum," Alden said. "Eventually, it burns itself out."
A pause.
Theo smiled faintly. "And until then?"
Alden's expression didn't change.
"I'll be here," he said simply, "drinking tea."
At the staff table, a few professors exchanged glances over their coffee cups. Flitwick whispered something to McGonagall; she pursed her lips and didn't answer. Moody, further down, grunted into his mouth, ug magical eye rolling once, locking briefly on Alden's calm figure.
Alden didn't look up. But his page turned precisely as the gaze passed him as if he'd felt it.
The clock above the hall chimed the half-hour. Students began to rise in a flurry of robes and chatter, but even as they filed out, the name lingered in the air like static.
"Dreyse,""That Slytherin."The one who stopped Moody."
It followed him out the doors, softer each time, until it was only ean cho and candlelight like the castle itself had learned his name and wasn't sure how to say it yet.
The castle changed faster than the weather.
By the second day, Alden's name had become a kind of background music hummed, whispered, misquoted. It drifted down staircases and through tapestries, slipped under classroom doors and up into the rafters with the dust motes.
Everywhere he walked, sound seemed to follow a heartbeat behind him.
Rumors in Motion
A group of Hufflepuffs near the library steps hissed to each other as he passed.
"They say he froze the whole hall solid."No, he stopped time. My cousin saw it—everyone's tea went cold."
Two Ravenclaws in the courtyard debated with academic seriousness.
"It was a perfect counter-hex."Impossible. You can't calculate a trajectory that fast."Then how's he still breathing?"
And from a pair of Gryffindor second-years near the greenhouses:
"He's half-dead already. That's why he doesn't blink."
Alden passed through all of it like mist through sunlight, untouched, unhurried. He never slowed, never frowned, never corrected. He carried his books under one arm and a small notebook in the other, flipping pages as he walked.
Theo finally caught up with him outside the Charms corridor, breathless and exasperated.
"You do realize they're saying you hexed Moody's eye into spinning faster?"
"Hm." Alden turned another page. "That's new."
"You don't even care?"
"I care that they're more creative this year."
Theo blinked. "This year?"
Alden's tone stayed mild, almost amused.
"Last year, it took a fortnight before they decided I was experimenting with the Dark Arts in my dormitory. One even claimed I was a ghost the prefects forgot to register."
Theo laughed despite himself. "And you didn't deny it?"
"Why spoil their effort? Imagination keeps them sharp."
Theo shook his head, muttering, "You're unbelievable."
"I'm consistent," Alden corrected, tucking the notebook away.
In the Classroom
Charms class was quieter than usual. Flitwick perched on his stack of books, eyes darting occasionally toward Alden as though he might start rearranging the furniture with a thought.
The lesson: Practical Precision in Charm Sustenance. Most students were struggling to keep a simple levitation steady for more than five seconds.
Alden's feather floated perfectly still in the air before him, motionless, flawless, like it was waiting for orders. He wasn't even looking at it. He was reading.
Draco leaned across his desk.
"You're reading during class?"
"I'm multitasking."
"You're showing off."
"Only if someone's watching."
Draco huffed and looked away, but Flitwick's approving cough gave him away.
Afternoon in the Courtyard
By midday, the rumors had evolved again. Someone claimed he'd been summoned to the Ministry overnight. Another swore Moody had tried to hex him, and Dumbledore intervened personally. None of it mattered; truth and invention blurred until even those telling the stories forgot which was which.
Theo and Draco sat under the cloisters while Alden read, a thin breeze stirring the pages of his book.
"You know," Theo said, "they're calling you the 'Third Shadow.'"
Alden didn't look up. "Unoriginal."
Draco smirked. "You sound flattered."
"Flattered implies effort," Alden said, turning the page. "I've done nothing new."
Theo gave him a sidelong look. "Exactly. That's what unnerves them. You're calm while the castle loses its mind."
"Panic is the most contagious magic there is," Alden said. "Someone needs immunity."
Draco leaned back against the pillar. "You could at least pretend to care. Moody's been watching you all day. Even his magical eye looks offended."
"Then I'm saving him the trouble of disappointment," Alden said simply, closing his book.
Evening Transition
By dinner, the story had become folklore. The Hufflepuffs spoke of him as if he were an omen; the Ravenclaws debated his technique; the Gryffindors cursed him in one breath and analyzed him in the next. And through it all, Alden Dreyse ate quietly at the Slytherin table, his fork and knife moving with exact rhythm, his eyes on the notes beside his plate.
Theo watched the room around them, the subtle shift of curiosity replacing fear. Whisper by whisper, Alden's myth was solidifying. Not evil. Not heroic. Just… inevitable.
Theo finally said, "You really don't care what they think?"
Alden took a sip of tea, eyes unreadable.
"Rumors," he said, "only have power if you believe them. I don't."
Theo smiled faintly. "And if they start believing each other?"
"Then the story becomes its own spell," Alden said, setting the cup down. "Let's see how long it lasts."
Outside, the last light of evening drifted through the enchanted windows, green and silver from the lake below, gold from the fading sun above.And somewhere in the hall, someone whispered again, soft as breath:
"Dreyse."
The name hung in the air like a charm that refused to fade.
The dungeons always smelled of stone and smoke, damp walls, iron cauldrons, and the faint sweetness of crushed roots. By Thursday morning, even the torches burned low and sullen, their light green-tinged from the moss crawling along the ceiling.
Gryffindor and Slytherin sat in their usual divided rows, tension thick enough to taste.
Ron muttered, "Why do we always get them?" as Draco sauntered in with Theo at his side. Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind like shadows. Alden came last, silent, composed, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of peppermint oil clinging to his cuffs instead of smoke.
Even the Gryffindors went quieter when he passed.
Snape swept into the room with his usual billow of robes. The class straightened instinctively.
"Today," he said, voice cutting through the air like a blade, "we continue with Boil-Cure Potions. Those of you capable of following basic instructions may avoid injury. The rest will provide me with amusement."
He flicked his wand; instructions scrawled across the board in curling silver letters.
Alden didn't look at them. He'd already opened his own notebook, neat script lining the page, alternate ratios, substitution theories. The book beside him wasn't Magical Drafts and Potions but Advanced Applications of Alchemical Catalysts.
He began without ceremony: measured the ingredients by sight, cut with the precision of a surgeon. Each motion smooth, silent, deliberate.
Across the room, Harry, Ron, and Hermione worked through the standard steps, whispering.
"It's him," Seamus hissed behind them. "The one who blocked Moody. Told him the Ministry's corrupt or something."
"He's right there, Seamus," Hermione muttered. "Try whispering quieter than a blast-ended skrewt."
Ron glanced up toward the Slytherin benches. Alden stood bent slightly over his cauldron, stirring counter-clockwise with exact rhythm. His silver-white hair caught the light like frost.
"Doesn't even blink," Ron murmured.
Harry said nothing. His eyes stayed on Alden for a beat longer than they should have.
"He doesn't look like the rumors," Hermione said finally. "He looks… ordinary."
"Ordinary people don't lecture Aurors," Ron replied.
Snape's voice snapped through the room. "Weasley. Less commentary, more potion."
Ron jumped; Hermione bit back a grin.
At the Slytherin tables, Theo leaned toward Alden.
"They're still talking about it."
"I know." Alden didn't look up.
"You really don't care?"
"Care wastes time," he murmured, adjusting the flame under his cauldron. "This mixture curdles if you breathe too close."
Theo watched, fascinated, as the potion shimmered pale green, then cooled into perfect translucent clarity.
"You changed the base," he said quietly.
"Standard recipe wastes foxglove. I'm stabilizing the reaction with powdered myrtle. Same effect, less volatility."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "Snape'll notice."
"That's the point."
Across the aisle, Seamus's cauldron made a sullen hiss. Steam turned violet.
"Uh—" he began.
"Don't add more snake fangs—" Hermione started, too late.
BANG.
The explosion echoed off the dungeon walls, showering half the class in hot green slime. A few shrieks, a cough, a muttered curse. Seamus stumbled back, hair smoking.
Snape's robes flared as he turned.
"Longbottom! Finnigan! Ten points each from Gryffindor for creative incompetence."
The room reeked of burnt nettles. Draco laughed softly under his breath.
Alden didn't flinch. He merely reached for his quill, noted external variable: temperature spike from adjacent cauldron—no effect, and resumed stirring.
Theo smirked. "Nothing rattles you, does it?"
Alden's tone was mild. "Not if it can be recorded."
Snape's footsteps echoed as he moved between tables, inspecting. When he reached Alden, he stopped. The potion inside the cauldron was glass-clear, faintly luminous, giving off no smoke at all.
"You modified the formula."
"Slightly."
"Explain."
"Mythic myrtle reduces residue build-up and prevents clotting at low heat," Alden said evenly. "The reaction stabilizes faster."
Snape studied the cauldron, then the boy.
"Result?"
"Consistent. Sustainable. Efficient."
A pause, then Snape's voice, low and unreadable:
"Ten points to Slytherin for audacity."
Draco blinked. "Audacity?"
"For assuming you know better than centuries of alchemists," Snape said, moving on. "And being right."
The class buzzed with whispers. Of course he's right. He's always right. Gryffindors glared, Slytherins murmured approval.
Harry caught Hermione's eye. "He really doesn't miss, does he?"
Hermione, already jotting notes, said quietly, "No. He doesn't."
By the end of class, Seamus's bench still smoked. The bell rang, echoing through the dungeons. Students hurried to pack up, chatter spilling like steam.
Alden finished wiping down his workspace, closed his book, and set his quill with perfect alignment. He didn't rush, didn't speak.
Theo slung his bag over one shoulder.
"You were right. Two days this year, not two weeks."
"Progress," Alden said dryly.
"At this rate," Draco muttered, "they'll start calling you Headmaster by Christmas."
Alden's lips curved faintly. "Then Hogwarts will finally run on schedule."
Theo snorted, shaking his head as they stepped out into the corridor, the noise of the school rising around them again, as relentless and alive as rumor itself.
Behind them, the cauldrons still hissed, and the green light of the dungeons faded into quiet.
Perfect, this scene marks the transition from rumor and recovery into forward motion again. It's quiet, conversational, world-anchored, a corridor walk before something important. We'll catch small, human rhythms: the shuffle of boots, echoing laughter in stairwells, torchlight flickering on stone. Draco's complaints will ground us in canon realism and give Alden a moment of dry insight before they reach the Defense classroom.
Scene 4 – The Walk to Defense
The corridor to the upper floors always smelled faintly of chalk and smoke. It was Thursday morning, clear light cutting through the high, arched windows, the kind that made even the dust motes look disciplined . Students were spilling from breakfast, chattering about the Triwizard rumor now pulsing through the school.
Draco walked a half-step ahead of Theo and Alden, cloak swishing, voice sharp with conviction.
"I'm telling you, it's absurdCancelingng Quidditch? Quidditch! The one thing worth enduring this place for."
Theo smirked. "Your priorities are admirable."
Draco ignored him. "We had the Cup this year. I could feel it. Flint's gone, Bletchley's training the new Keeper, Montague actually learned how to pass, and then Dumbledore decides to host a century-old death trap instead. Brilliant."
Theo hummed. "So noble. You mourn sport while others prepare for peril."
Draco shot him a look. "Don't start with the dramatics. Whoever enters that tournament's an idiot anyway. Death toll alone should've scared them off."
They turned down the stone stairway. Light from the lake shimmered on the walls, casting ripples like molten glass.
"Maybe," Alden said quietly, "but danger tends to attract the kind who think they'll be the exception."
Draco glanced back. "You mean Potter."
Alden didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth tilted.
Theo snorted. "Statistically inevitable."
"He'll enter," Draco muttered, stepping aside for a gaggle of fourth-years rushing past. "He can't help himself. Fame's a sickness, you know."
"Says the boy rehearsing his victory speech for next year's Cup," Theo said.
Draco's retort was cut short by a thunder of boots overhead, the sound of Hufflepuffs already queuing outside Moody's classroom. The smell of polish and metal drifted down the stairs, faint ozone like a storm waiting to happen.
Alden's gaze lifted toward the noise.
"Listen," he murmured. "Even the castle's holding its breath."
Theo followed his eyes, curious. "You sound almost excited."
"Not excited," Alden said. "Interested. There's a difference."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You'll see. The man's mad. Everyone says he curses furniture when he's bored."
"Then we'll sit very still," Alden said dryly.
Theo laughed under his breath as they reached the landing. Moody's classroom door loomed ahead, heavy oak bound in iron, faint scorch marks licking the edges from whatever last class had gone wrong.
Students clustered outside, voices low with a mix of awe and nerves. The chatter about the Triwizard Tournament tangled with gossip about curses, scars, and missing limbs.
Draco adjusted his collar, muttering, "If he tries anything, I'm leaving."
"Unlikely," Alden said, brushing a fleck of dust from his sleeve. "You hate missing the show."
The door creaked open before Draco could reply. A rough, gravelly voice growled from within:
"Inside. Wands out."
The crowd hesitated.
Alden stepped forward first, unhurried and precise, and crossed the threshold as thunder rolled distantly over the lake.
Theo sighed. "Well," he said, following, "here begins the legend of our collective survival."
Draco groaned and trailed after them, still muttering about Quidditch.
Behind them, the heavy door thudded shut, sealing the castle's morning gossip on the other side.
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