The Gryffindor common room pulsed with the hush of late evening. Outside, the rain still whispered against the tall windows, tracing silver veins down the glass. Inside, the fire snapped and hissed, throwing gold across the rugs and armchair that familiar warmth that made the castle's shadows feel less like secrets.
Hermione slipped through the portrait hole just as it was swinging shut. Her satchel bumped against her hip, parchment peeking from its flap, and ink smudged her fingers, mall trophies of a long study session.
She hadn't expected to find anyone still waiting up.
But by the fire sat Harry and Ron, slouched in the armchairs, playing wizard's chess with the sort of concentration that meant they were pretending not to worry.
Ron looked up first, relief breaking across his freckled face.
"Finally! Thought you'd been hexed or something," he said, half-teasing, half-serious. "You were gone for hours, 'Mione. Studying or making deals with snakes?"
Hermione sighed, tugging her robes straight.
"Neither. We were working."
Harry leaned forward, curious but cautious.
"With Dreyse?"
She nodded, setting her satchel down beside the hearth.
"Yes. He was on time, polite, and actually helpful."
Ron's eyebrows shot up.
"Helpful? Him? You're joking, right? That's the same bloke who blocked an Auror's spell last month!"
"And insulted him," Harry added, tone quieter, less anger, more fascination.
Hermione crossed her arms.
"He didn't insult him. He questioned him. There's a difference."
Ron snorted.
"Says you. I bet Malfoy's throwing a party down in the dungeons finally got himself a proper sidekick."
Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"He's not like Malfoy."
"They're all the same down there," Ron muttered, moving a pawn with unnecessary force. "Creeping around in the dark, pretending they're better than everyone."
The fire popped sharply, filling the pause. Harry watched Hermione closely; her expression had softened, something thoughtful behind the irritation.
"What's he like, then?" Harry asked. "Really?"
She hesitated, turning toward the flames. The light caught in her curls, gold flickering over her face.
"Different," she said finally. "Not what people say. He's… quiet. Controlled. You can see it when he works, every movement is deliberate, like he's thinking five steps ahead."
Ron rolled his eyes.
"Sounds thrilling."
Hermione ignored him.
"He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's never nonsense. He doesn't show off; he measures things. Even spells. It's like… he understands magic differently."
Harry frowned, thoughtful.
"Differently how?"
She struggled for the right word.
"Not good or bad, just… detached. Like he sees what magic is, not what people want it to be."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was wary. Ron broke it first.
"You know, that's exactly the kind of thing a Slytherin would say before taking over the world."
Hermione shot him a glare sharp enough to cut parchment.
"You're impossible."
"I'm realistic," Ron said, shrugging. "They grow them strange down there. You'll see, give it a week, and he'll be trying to convince you 'dark' is just misunderstood."
Harry leaned back in his chair, watching the fire twist.
"Maybe he already believes that."
Hermione turned to him, defensive but not angry.
"He's not dangerous, Harry."
Harry's green eyes flicked up to hers.
"Neither was Tom Riddle at fourteen."
The words landed heavier than intended. Even Ron winced.
Hermione exhaled, slow and steady.
"You can think what you want. But I saw him work. If he wanted power, he'd already have it. He's not after control, he's after understanding."
Ron muttered under his breath,
"Yeah, that's comforting."
Hermione gathered her things, standing.
"Believe what you like. I'd rather know people than rumors."
She turned toward the stairway, pausing only once as the fire flared behind her.
"And for the record," she added, glancing back, "he's a better study partner than either of you."
Ron groaned audibly. Harry's lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
"That's not saying much," he called after her.
The portrait swung shut behind her with a soft thump, and the common room settled into quiet again. Ron moved his bishop lazily, still scowling.
"You think she's right about him?"
Harry didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the fir, the way the light caught the edges of the chessboard, the way it bent and flickered.
"I think," he said slowly, "we'd better hope she is."
By the time the weekend came, Hogwarts had returned to its uneasy rhythm. The castle always recovered quickly from scandal gossip was its heartbeat, but the murmurs about Alden Dreyse had a longer half-life than most. He ignored them all.
The dungeons, however, had their own weather. The torchlight down here didn't flicker; it pulsed, steady and slow, against the green shimmer of the underground pools. It was cool, quiet, and clean. The kind of place that demanded composure.
Alden sat near the far end of the Slytherin common room, his chair angled toward the lake-facing windows where kelp shadows rippled like moving glass . An open book, Advanced Potion Theory, rested on his knee, parchment spread beside it in organized chaos.
Theo was sprawled nearby, boots on the table, skimming through his essay with visible resentment. Draco paced between them, parchment in hand, muttering to himself.
"Snape wants five feet on fluxweed activation and doesn't explain what he means by 'contextual variance.' What does that even mean?"
Theo didn't look up.
"It means you didn't listen in last class."
"Oh, thank you, Nott, your insight's staggering."
Alden turned a page, silent, the motion measured.
After another minute of pacing, Draco stopped and turned toward him.
"You actually understand this nonsense, don't you?"
Alden didn't answer immediately; he never did. He finished reading the sentence, marked it with a neat stroke of ink, and looked up.
"Mostly."
Draco thrust his parchment out like an accusation.
"Then tell me why my mixture keeps burning green instead of silver. I followed the bloody instructions."
"You followed the words," Alden said. "Not the timing."
"Timing?"
"You added the root too soon. The flame should flare twice before you stir. If you move before the second flare, you scorch the residue, and it goes green."
Theo whistled under his breath.
"That's… disturbingly specific."
Alden's expression didn't change.
"Alchemy is memory. The ingredients remember what you do."
Draco frowned, half lost.
"So what, the potion's got feelings now?"
"No," Alden said, eyes lowering to his notes again. "It just doesn't forgive mistakes."
A brief silence fell not awkward, but dense. The kind of pause where people understood something important had just been said, even if they couldn't name what.
Theo leaned over, glancing at Alden's parchment.
"You're working on something different?"
Alden nodded faintly.
"A refinement. Fluxweed preservation without lunar dependency."
Draco blinked.
"You can't do that, the moon's the active stabilizer."
"It's the visible stabilizer," Alden corrected. "The actual catalyst is residual silver trace in the dew. That can be recreated with powdered mithril or."
"Mithril doesn't exist," Theo interrupted.
"Exactly," Alden said. "That's why it works."
Draco groaned, tossing his quill down.
"You're insufferable when you talk like that."
Alden's lips twitched almost into a smile.
"And yet you're still here."
Theo grinned.
"We're all still here. He's like the quiet cult leader of the library."
"That's not funny," Draco muttered, though his tone softened. "The last thing we need is more rumors."
At that, Alden finally looked up, eyes glinting faintly in the green light.
"Rumors are oxygen," he said. "Let them burn themselves out."
A pause. The water beyond the glass shivered a shoal of fish scattering. Draco sighed, collapsing into the armchair opposite him.
"I don't get you, Dreyse. You tell off Moody, call the Ministry pathetic, and then sit here like none of it matters."
Alden dipped his quill in ink, voice steady.
"It doesn't. Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"Truth takes time to be noticed."
Theo, ever the observer, studied him for a long moment before chuckling.
"Remind me never to play chess with you."
"You'd lose in three moves," Alden said mildly.
The tension cracked, laughter scattered like coins on marble. Even Draco couldn't resist a faint smirk.
As they gathered their books, Daphne Greengrass drifted over from the far table. Her tone, cool and precise, carried the easy authority of someone used to being listened to.
"Dreyse, rumor says you finished the potion essay already."
"Rumors are efficient," Alden replied without looking up.
"Then maybe you can be efficient for me. I'll trade my Arithmancy notes."
He met her gaze.
"You should do your own work."
Daphne tilted her head, half-amused.
"Always the noble scholar, aren't you?"
"No," he said simply. "Just consistent."
Theo snorted.
"He turned down Greengrass. Merli,n save us."
Draco leaned back, a little grin tugging at his mouth.
"I told you. He's got rules even Slytherins can't bend."
Alden didn't respond. He gathered his things, careful, exact, and stood.
"Rules aren't the problem," he said finally. "People just forget why they made them."
And with that, he walked on his steps soundlessly against the cold stone . For a moment, even the low whisper of the lake outside seemed to pause.
Draco watched him go, then muttered,
"Sometimes I think he's older than the castle."
Theo's grin faded into something more thoughtful.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think the castle agrees."
The morning light was thin and metallic, the kind that couldn't decide if it wanted to be gold or gray. It leaked through the slitted windows of the Defense classroom in hard, slanting bars, striping the desks and the floor in pale silver.
By the time Alden arrived, half the seats were already taken. The air buzzed with low conversation excitement dressed as dread. Even in Hogwarts, the prospect of being cursed was enough to wake students up early.
"He's really going to do it," Seamus was whispering to Dean."Imperius. On students."
"Bet it's a Ministry thing," Dean muttered. "They're letting him because he's Moody."
From the Gryffindor corner came Ron's voice, pitched too loud.
"I'll tell you what's ma, letting him teach after he turned Malfoy into a ferret!"
Laughter rippled through the class. Then, as if sensing a gravity shift, their gazes flicked toward the Slytherins. Alden was passing behind their row, expression unreadable, silver-white hair almost glowing under the chalklight.
He didn't look at them. He didn't have to.
Theo fell into step beside him, keeping his voice low.
"Heard Moody's been waiting for this lesson," he murmured. "Said he wanted to 'test a few theories.'"
"Theories about what?"
"You," Theo said simply.
Alden said nothing. He took his seat front row, center, and began arranging his things with surgical precision: ink, quill, parchment. Around him, chairs scraped, and whispers coiled tighter.
The door banged open.
Clunk. Thud. Clunk.
Mad-Eye Moody stumped into the room, his staff striking the floor like a metronome. His magical eye whirled once, scanning the entire class, then locked predictably on Alden Dreyse.
"Right," Moody rasped. "We're not wasting time."
He tossed his staff against the wall; it landed with a sharp crack.
"Last lesson, you saw what Dark wizards do to others. Today you'll learn what they do to you."
The whispering stopped. Even the air seemed to stiffen.
"The Imperius Curse," Moody continued, pacing the front of the room. "Control. Obedience. Stripped will. You'll know what it feels like and what it takes to fight it."
He turned sharply, his normal eye scanning the rows while the magical one spun independently.
"Some of you will break in seconds. Some might last a little longer. Either way, you'll learn."
Hermione shifted uneasily in her seat.
"Professor, is it?"
"Safe?" Moody finished with a bark that might've been laughter. "As safe as a curse ever is. Dumbledore trusts me. You can trust me, too."
Ron muttered something under his breath about famous last words.
Moody's magical eye spun until it landed once more on Alden. It stopped moving.
"Dreyse."
The class's attention snapped toward him instantly.
Alden looked up from his notes, calm as mist.
"Professor."
"Front and center."
He rose without comment, footsteps soft against the flagstones . Moody's scarred mouth twisted into something between amusement and challenge.
"Thought we'd start with you. You've got one opinion, about curses, about power. Let's see if you understand control as well as you talk about it."
Draco turned slightly in his chair, anxiety flickering across his face. Theo's quill stopped moving.
Alden stopped a few feet away from the desk.
"You want to test me," he said quietly, "to see how long it takes to bend."
"That's the idea."
"Then I'll try not to disappoint you."
A faint murmur rippled through the class, half laughter, half disbelief.
Moody raised his wand, the air prickling around him like static before lightning.
"You've got one chance, Dreyse. Keep your mind clear. Or I'll make you dance like a puppet."
Alden's hand brushed the edge of his desk, steadying himself. His voice stayed soft.
"Do your worst."
The curse hit like thunder.
White light erupted across the room, a soundless pressure slamming into Alden's chest. His body jerked once, then stilled. For a heartbeat two e remained upright, unmoving. The parchment on his desk trembled from the force of the magic.
Moody's grin widened.
"Strong," he muttered. "But strength doesn't last."
He flicked his wand sharply, and the invisible pressure deepened. Alden's fingers twitched. A drop of ink spilled, blooming like a black sun on parchment.
From the back, Theo half-rose from his seat.
"Professor"
"Sit down, Nott."
The tension hung taut enough to hum. Then Alden blinked. His head tilted slightly, as if he'd heard something no one else could.
And for the briefest second, Moody's eye twitched.
The spell didn't take fully. Not yet.
Alden's voice, distant but deliberate, cut through the silence:
"You mistake obedience for strength."
The words shouldn't have been possible, not under the curse, yet they landed like cold iron.
Moody's good eye narrowed, fury replacing curiosity.
"We'll see about that."
He raised his wand again, and the pressure slammed down like a weight.
Alden's knees buckled.
The scene froze there, a balance between defiance and collapse, every student gripping the edges of their desks, breath caught.
And then the light flickered.
For a long heartbeat, the room was soundless . Moody's wand arm hung steady, the tip glowing faintly blue-white. Across from him, Alden sways the curse rippling through him like an unseen tide.
At first, it was only his right hand that moved. The quill he'd dropped earlier twitched once on the desk, then rolled to the floor. Then his fingers jerked off their own accord and groped for the wand at his belt.
"Up," Moody murmured. "Let's see what the mind does when it isn't its own."
The words were clinical, almost detached.
Alden's body obeyed. He rose, movements sharp and stilted, like a marionette. Students gasped. Hermione's hand flew to her mouth; Seamus's chair screeched backward. The Imperius hum filled a faint, like the whisper of metal under strain.
Moody's normal eye gleamed with grim satisfaction.
"Raise your wand."
Alden did. The tip wavered, then steadied.
"Now carve a line. Just one. The left hand."
There was no hesitation. Alden turned his wrist and dragged the wand's tip across his palm, a shallow, perfect incision. Crimson welled instantly, thin as ink, bright against the pale of his skin. A collective cry broke out from the desks even Draco made a small, strangled sound.
But Alden didn't react. His face was utterly still, eyes vacant, silver reflecting the torchlight, empty as a mirror. Moody lowered his wand, voice low and almost admiring.
"You see, class, this is control. Mind, body, obedience. Nothing left of choice."
The spell held a second longer… and then broke.
The moment it did, Alden inhaled the first real breath in minutes. He didn't stumble or cry out . He simply blinked once, lowering his wand, and looked down at his bleeding hand.
A hush pressed in from every direction.
He tore a strip from his sleeve, wrapping it around his palm without wordNo No anger. No fear. Just precision.
Moody watched him the whole time. Something flickered in the older wizard's mismatched eyes, not pity, not guilt. Recognition.
"You fought well," he said, voice low. "Better than most grown wizards could."
Alden's tone was quiet, flat.
"You mistake pain for proof."
A murmur swept through the room, students glancing at each other in confusion, discomfort. They heard a cryptic statement. Only Moody heard the threat inside it.
His good eye narrowed. The magical one whirled faster, a predator's focus tightening.
"Careful, boy," he said softly. "You don't know who you're talking to."
Alden finished tying the bandage, the knot neat and small. He finally looked u and, for the first time, met Moody's gaze directly.
"Neither do you."
The words weren't loud, but they hit the room like a dropped blade as one moved.
Then Alden turned, gathered his books, and walked calmly to his seat. The cut on his hand left faint dots of red along the parchment, blooming like tiny seals.
Moody didn't stop him. He only watched still, intent, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.
For the first time since taking the Polyjuice, Barty Crouch Jr. felt something close to exhilaration. Not because the boy had resisted.But because he'd recognized him.
The infirmary smelled faintly of alcohol and lavender. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, brushing pale silver over the white sheets. Madam Pomfrey moved briskly, the faint click of vials and bandages punctuating the hush.
Alden sat upright on the edge of the bed, shirt sleeve rolled past the elbow. The cut on his palm had already been cleaned and sealed with a thin pink line, no longer bleeding, but angry in color. He didn't wince when Pomfrey pressed the salve to it; he didn't even flinch.
"You're lucky," she said, voice clipped. "Another inch deeper and you'd have scar tissue interfering with your grip. What possessed Moody to do this, I'll never"She broke off, tightening the bandage."You should be resting."
"It's only a cut," Alden murmured. His tone was soft but firm, like a decision made long ago.
"A cut inflicted under Imperius," Pomfrey snapped. "That's not just a curse, that's a violation. You"
But Alden's gaze had drifted to the far window. Outside, the lake glimmered black and glassy, catching the moon's reflection in a single trembling thread. His mind wasn't on pain; it was on the line between control and surrender, on how easily one could be crossed.
The portraits lining the walls were awake, feigning sleep, but their eyes tracked every movement. The fire burned high and blue, throwing warped shadows across Moody's scarred face and Snape's pale one.
Snape was livid. N ot loud, never loud, but his words sliced through the air with surgical precision.
"You performed Imperius on a fourteen-year-old," Snape hissed, robes flaring as he took a step forward. "And not only that you draw blood. Do you call that teaching?"
"I call it survival," Moody growled, jaw tightening. "Better he learns it from me than dies not knowing what it feels like."
"Better?" Snape's voice dropped lower, colder. "You think there is anything better in seeing a student cut himself open in front of his peers?"
Dumbledore stood between them, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable in the shifting light.
"Enough," he said quietly, but the word carried the force of command."Alastor, I entrusted you with this class because I believed you understood boundaries."
Moody's mismatched eyes flicked to him, one steady, one rolling.
"Boundaries don't exist in war, Albus. You of all people should know that."
"And yet," Dumbledore said, voice like glass cooling after fire, "we are not at war."
A pause. Then Snape's wand slid into his hand with a soft hiss.
"If you so much as point that wand at one of mine again," he said softly, dangerously, "you won't have to worry about teaching or breathing."
Moody's normal eye narrowed; his magical one whirred wildly, locking onto Snape's face.
"Empty threats from a man who hides in the dungeons," he rasped. "Your pet snake-boy threatened me after I let him go. Said"
"He said nothing I wouldn't have," Snape cut in, cold as iron.
The portraits murmured. Even Phineas Nigellu, usually amused by Slytherin's temper, went silent.
Dumbledore exhaled through his nose, gaze moving between them like a scale weighing both sides of the same madness.
"Severus," he said at last, "you've made your point."
"I haven't," Snape said. "Moody's out of control. He nearly"
"Enough."
The single word halted him. Dumbledore's expression softened only slightly as he turned toward the Auror.
"Alastor, you will refrain from using Unforgivables in my classrooms. I will not repeat this request."
"You think you can protect them from the world?" Moody snarled. "You think your precious prodigies are safe behind wards and rules? That boy"
Iss a child," Dumbledore said sharply, cutting through him. "Not a soldier. And you, my friend, are no longer at the front lines."
The silence that followed was jagged. For a moment, even Moody seemed to forget his reply.
Then, with a grunt, he snatched up his staff.
"You're coddling a generation that'll die soft," he muttered. "And when they do, remember I tried to harden them."
He limped toward the door, the wooden leg striking the floor in dull rhythm: thud, clunk, thud. Before leaving, he paused, the magical eye rotating once more toward Snape.
"Keep your snake on a leash, Severus. His eyes don't belong to a student."
Snape didn't answer, but his wand flicked once, and the door slammed shut behind Moody as he exited.
The room exhaled, all tension and smoke.
Dumbledore's hand found the edge of his desk, resting there lightly. His voice, when it came, was quiet, again tired, but thoughtful.
"He is wrong about many things," he said, "but not about the boy's eyes."
Snape didn't reply for a moment. Then:
"He's not like Gellert."
Dumbledore looked up slowly.
"No." A pause. "But the world will think he is."
Alden's bandage was clean now, the bleeding long stopped. Pomfrey fussed once more before retreating to her cabinet, muttering about Aurors and ethics.
Left alone, Alden leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. The castle was quiet. Somewhere above, a clock struck eleven.
He stared at his hand, not the wound, but the faint scar tissue beginning to form. Not pain. Not fear.Just… confirmation.
He'd pushed first. Now he knows I'll push back.
His reflection flickered faintly in the polished brass lamp beside the bed, pale, still, silver-eyed. Outside, thunder rolled again, far off over the Black Lake.
A faint smile ghosted his mouth.
"So much for constant vigilance," he murmured, too quiet for anyone to hear.
And in Dumbledore's office above, the headmaster sat at his desk, eyes distant, wondering if it was brilliance or danger he'd just allowed to grow another inch.