The night had settled heavily upon Hogwarts. Beyond the high windows of the Headmaster's office, the sky bled silver over the Forbidden Forest. The castle breathed in silence — staircases groaned, portraits whispered among themselves, and the walls remembered.
Dumbledore moved through that stillness like a ghost returning home. The portraits of former headmasters watched him, their painted eyes full of questions he didn't care to answer. Fawkes, asleep on his perch, gave a faint tremor of feathers, as if sensing the weight his master carried.
When Dumbledore reached his desk, he did not sit. He simply stood behind it, hands folded atop the polished wood, eyes lost somewhere beyond the dancing candle flames. The surface before him was cluttered: brass instruments spun and clicked softly; parchment curls of half-finished letters littered the space; a basin of silvery light — his Pensieve — glimmered faintly at the edge of reach.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then, finally, he whispered a word, and the basin stirred.
Threads of memory rose like mist — faint, trembling, silver-gold. They coalesced into shape: two boys in a summer field, one laughing, one listening.
But it was not Gellert who first emerged.
It was Mathius.
He had almost forgotten the younger brother's face.
Mathius Grindelwald had been soft-spoken, narrow-shouldered, with eyes the color of wet ash. He had none of Gellert's brilliance or ambition, at least not in a way that the world valued. Where Gellert burned to conquer, Mathius questioned.
He was the theorist — the philosopher. The quiet observer who wrote in margins rather than on banners.
Dumbledore remembered sitting once in the Grindelwald family garden, listening to Gellert boast about wandlore and prophecy, while Mathius sat beside them, drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick.
"You both chase glory," Mathius had murmured. "But you never stop to ask whether truth survives the chase."
They had laughed at him then — Gellert loud, Dumbledore polite.
He'd been a muggleborn squib, if rumor was true. The shame of the family. Gellert had adored him, though — doted on him in ways that Dumbledore had once found strange. He built for Mathius the kind of respect he could not earn for himself.
When Dumbledore and Gellert had planned together — the Hallows, the "Greater Good," the dream of a new order — Mathius had often been nearby, a quiet voice at the edge of the firelight, taking notes, asking questions neither of them wanted to answer.
"If magic shapes morality," he once said, "then perhaps morality itself is a spell."
Dumbledore had smiled indulgently. Gellert had called him naïve. And Mathius had simply gone on writing.
The memory faded. The office swam back into focus — cold, empty, old.
Dumbledore sank into his chair at last, rubbing his temples. His reflection in the glass cabinet across the room looked older than he cared to admit.
So that was it, he thought. That was the missing thread.
Mathius Grindelwald — the brother no one remembered.The philosopher who believed in intent over action.The man who had theorized that magic itself was neutral — that light and dark were the delusions of fearful men.
It made sense now. The dual-core wand.The spell Aeternum Fractura — breaking law not by resistance, but by redefinition. That was Mathius's language, not Gellert's.
And Alden Dreyse—
He leaned back, the name rolling through his mind. A boy too quiet for his age. Too patient. Too exacting.
He remembered the sorting ceremony three years ago — how the hat had lingered on his head longer than most, whispering so long that Minerva had frowned. When it finally shouted "Slytherin," Alden hadn't reacted. Not a flinch, not a smirk. Just quiet acceptance, as he'd already known.
Dumbledore had watched him ever since.
A boy who asked strange questions. Who never dueled for glory, never sought attention, but listened. A boy who spent hours in the library, slipping into the Restricted Section under Disillusionment when he thought no one saw.
But Dumbledore saw everything.
He saw the books Alden requested from Madam Pince — Runic Logic and Transfigurative Paradox,Intent as a Magical Constant,The Grindelwaldian Theories of Dual Magic — works only scholars dared attempt.
He saw how Alden tested boundaries: Casting defensive spells inverted, turning charms into weapons, disarming without cruelty, defending without anger.
And always the same question behind his eyes —What is a spell, truly? A word, or a will?
Dumbledore rose again, pacing before the window. The moonlight bled through the glass, painting his robes in silver threads.
He spoke softly to the air, as if confessing to the ghosts of the room.
"He reminds me of you, you know," he murmured. "The way he watches. The way he questions. But he is not you, Gellert. Nor Mathius. He's something in between."
He stopped by the cabinet, staring at the glimmer of the Elder Wand resting inside. Its pale wood reflected faintly, a weapon once wielded for love, then for ruin.
"Perhaps he will finish what you started," he whispered. "Or perhaps he will destroy it completely."
Fawkes stirred behind him, letting out a soft, mournful trill — the sound of endings yet to come.
Dumbledore turned away from the wand and looked toward the shadows near his door. They stretched long across the stone. In them, it was easy to imagine the shape of a boy — silent, sharp-eyed, unshaken — stepping past every rule he'd ever made.
He exhaled, weary.
"The world forgets its ghosts," he said quietly. "But they find new names."
He looked back once at the Pensieve, where the fading ripples of memory glowed like veins of light.
And then, with the faintest tremor of breath —
"Mathius…"
The word hung in the air like incense — ancient, sorrowful, and alive again.
The candles guttered, one by one.
Only the silver light of the moon remained.
The castle woke beneath the weight of ink.
By breakfast, every table had at least three copies of The Daily Prophet unfolded between the porridge and pumpkin juice, Rita Skeeter's name glittering in gold type across the headline. The front page wasn't about the Triwizard Tournament at all. It was about Harry Potter.
Half of Harry's face grinned stiffly from the moving photograph, his eyes darting, uncomfortable. The caption beneath it—
"The Boy Who Braved Death — and Cries For It Still."
By midmorning, every whisper in Hogwarts carried it.
At the Slytherin table, parchment rustled like dry leaves. Tracy Davis leaned over Daphne's shoulder, scanning the article so close her hair brushed the print.
"He cries about his parents?" Tracy said incredulously, wrinkling her nose. "She actually printed that?"
Daphne read on in silence. The sunlight caught her pale hair, turning it gold at the edges. Then, with sudden venom—
"And apparently," she read aloud, voice like a blade, "he's 'rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl.'"
The words left her mouth like a curse. Tracy snorted, half choking on her pumpkin juice.
"Stunningly pretty? Maybe if you like frizz and ink stains."
Draco laughed from across the table, loud enough for the Gryffindors to hear. Crabbe and Goyle followed in echo, blunt and braying.
"Hear that, Potter?" Draco called, holding up the paper like a banner. "Didn't know you fancied chipmunks!"
Laughter rippled down the Slytherin table. A few Ravenclaws tried to stifle their own grins. Even Pansy was clutching her sides, repeating "stunningly pretty" in mock awe.
Theo, sitting beside Alden, sighed through his nose.
"They're like children let out during a thunderstorm."
Alden didn't respond. He was reading the article upside down from Daphne's parchment, his expression unreadable — not curious, not offended, simply aware.
When Draco looked his way, expecting a smirk, Alden only glanced at him once.
"The headline's misspelled," he murmured, then went back to buttering his toast.
Theo gave a small, strangled laugh. Daphne, however, was still seething.
"I can't believe you're not mentioned," she said under her breath, turning the parchment. "You're the one with perfect marks, you're basically studying N.E.W.T.-level theory, you broke the Age Line— and she writes this rubbish about Potter crying."
"Journalists write what readers want," Alden said. "People like a boy who cries for noble reasons."
"And what do they think of a boy who doesn't?" Theo asked.
Alden shrugged. "They invent their own reasons."
By lunch, the article had spread like wildfire through every corridor. Hufflepuffs passed it hand to hand, shaking their heads. Ravenclaws dissected every word as if it were an exam passage. And Slytherins — oh, Slytherins flourished in the chaos.
Every insult Draco threw found an audience. Every sneer, every quip about Potter's "tragic tears" drew more laughter. By the time Defense Against the Dark Arts ended, Harry could barely make it through the corridor without someone whispering, "Stunningly pretty, wasn't she?"
And through it all, Alden said nothing.
He didn't join in, didn't stop it. He walked through the noise like a knife through smoke — silent, composed, untouchable.
To the rest of the school, that silence looked like consent. And the legend of Alden Dreyse — the boy who shattered Dumbledore's magic — began to twist.
Whispers turned to rumors. Rumors turned to fear.
"He lets Malfoy do what he wants.""He's the one who started it.""Slytherin's his army now."
Even in the Great Hall, heads turned when he entered. The hush wasn't awe anymore — it was uncertainty.
That evening in the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere burned with smug triumph. Draco was holding court by the fire, mimicking Harry's voice in tragic exaggeration, clutching a tissue and wailing about his dead parents. Crabbe and Goyle wheezed with laughter. Tracy and Daphne sat nearby, pretending to read but listening all the same.
Theo sat at Alden's table, quill moving lazily over parchment.
"You're not going to say anything, are you?" he asked quietly.
Alden didn't look up from his notes.
"About what?"
"All of this. The badges. The taunting. The way they're using your name like a banner."
Alden turned a page, the motion so calm it almost looked deliberate.
"They'll tire of it. They always do."
Theo studied him for a moment, then said, "They're making enemies in your shadow."
"Then the enemies will aim for the shadow," Alden replied. "Not me."
His tone wasn't arrogant. It was a simple calculation — cold, pragmatic, precise.
Daphne slammed her book shut.
"You don't get it," she said sharply. "People think you approve. They think this is all you're doing. Every sneer, every curse thrown in the corridors— they think it's Slytherin following your lead."
Alden finally looked up, meeting her eyes. His gaze was cool, steady, unreadable.
"Then let them think it," he said softly. "It's easier than explaining the truth."
Daphne's anger faltered, just for a heartbeat. There was something in his tone — not pride, but weariness. The kind that came from carrying too much restraint for too long.
Theo gave a low hum. "You make it sound like reputation's another spell."
"It is," Alden said, gathering his papers. "And once cast, it defends itself."
He stood, the faint gleam of his silver hair catching the firelight.
"Let Draco play his games. Let the others talk. Words don't kill."
He turned to leave.
Daphne watched him go, lips pressed thin.
"No," she murmured to herself, "but they change everything else."
The dungeon smelled of burnt sage and brass. Alden had grown used to it — that faint tang of potion residue that clung to the stone, like ghosts of past experiments. It was after dinner now, and the torches burned low, flickering with greenish light.
Slytherin had been loud all day.
The new badges gleamed like battle medals across every chest: SUPPORT ALDEN DREYSE — THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION! And when pressed, they pulsed a sickly green, shifting into their uglier form: POTTER REALLY STINKS.
Snape had said nothing about them during class. He didn't have to. The silence that hung in his lessons was its own punishment — sharp, suffocating, absolute.
Now, as the final cauldrons cooled, he swept his robes once through the air.
"Class dismissed."
The words cut clean through the echo of scraping chairs.
Students packed up quickly, whispers flitting like insects. Draco threw Alden a smirk on his way out, still laughing under his breath about how Potter had almost botched his Draught of Calming. Theo gave Alden a brief nod before following Daphne and Tracy out.
Alden had just corked his vial when Snape's voice came again, low and deliberate.
"Dreyse. Stay."
The word froze him mid-motion.
He turned. Snape was standing at his desk, half-shrouded in torchlight. His dark eyes gleamed, unreadable. The last of the students hurried out; the heavy dungeon door thudded shut. With a flick of his wand, the locks clicked into place — a dull, echoing sound that seemed to seal the entire room in shadow.
Snape did not speak immediately. He simply watched Alden, head tilted slightly, the way a hawk might study a movement in the grass.
When he finally did speak, his tone was silk over steel.
"Tell me, Mr. Dreyse… do you have any idea what the first task entails?"
Alden straightened slowly, setting his vial aside. "No, sir."
A pause. The faint drip of potion residue filled the silence.
"No?" Snape repeated, almost softly. "Not even the faintest curiosity? You, who disassembled Dumbledore's own age line in front of the entire school?
Alden's lips twitched — not into a smile, but something close to thought.
"Curiosity and concern aren't the same thing, Professor. I've had no time to hunt for gossip. My evenings are spent refining the Solace Draught you assigned me — and avoiding whatever chaos the rest of the castle seems determined to create."
Snape's eyes flickered with something between irritation and reluctant admiration.
"Yes. Hogwarts has descended into theatre again. And your House, as always, is the orchestra."
He paced once behind his desk, his boots whispering against the flagstones.
"Your silence has become… misunderstood, Dreyse. The entire school assumes you are encouraging this farce — these ridiculous badges, this house-wide mockery of Potter. And you say nothing."
"Words rarely stop a mob, sir," Alden said quietly.
"But restraint can be mistaken for permission."
The words landed like the echo of a truth Alden already knew.
He didn't answer. He simply met Snape's gaze — the calm, neutral kind that always seemed to irritate adults more than defiance.
Snape regarded him for another long moment, then sighed through his nose — the smallest sound, but it carried centuries of patience running thin.
"You will not have the luxury of indifference for much longer," he said. "The first task approaches, and whether you sought this tournament or not, it will not spare you for your discipline."
Alden tilted his head. "So I've gathered. What is it, then?"
Snape stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed, the shadows deepening around them both.
"Dragons."
The word hung in the air, alive and ancient.
Alden blinked once. The torches sputtered, as if the dungeon itself recoiled at the sound.
"Real ones?" he asked — not with fear, but curiosity.
Snape's mouth curled faintly — not quite a smile.
"You think the Ministry would waste its time on illusions? No, Dreyse. Real dragons. Fire-breathing, territorial, and generally unappreciative of interruption. You and the others will face one in the arena."
"That seems… excessive," Alden murmured.
"So is most of the wizarding world," Snape replied dryly. "I am telling you this not to warn you — you would not heed it if I did — but to remind you that brilliance without caution is still foolishness."
Alden considered that for a moment. "Noted, sir."
Snape's eyes flickered, the way they sometimes did when he saw something familiar in his students and wished he didn't.
"You remind me," he said slowly, "of people who thought cleverness made them invincible."
Alden tilted his head slightly, the silver of his hair catching the torchlight.
"And were they?"
Snape's voice dropped lower. "They're all dead."
A brief silence stretched.
Then Alden inclined his head — respectful, composed.
"Then I'll make a note to be the exception."
For a fraction of a second, Snape's lip twitched. Not amusement. Not disapproval. Something between the two — the faintest shadow of pride, perhaps.
He flicked his wand; the locks on the dungeon door released with a metallic groan.
"Go. And do not mention what you've heard. If word spreads, I'll know exactly where it came from."
"Understood."
Alden gathered his notes, tucking them under one arm. As he passed the professor's desk, Snape spoke again, voice low but not unkind.
"Do not underestimate what you will face, Dreyse. Dragons do not reason. They burn."
Alden paused at the threshold. "So do wizards, sir. Only slower."
Snape looked up, meeting his student's eyes. For the briefest moment, the two of them shared a silence that wasn't rivalry, wasn't fear — just recognition.
"Get out," Snape said finally, voice curt again.
Alden inclined his head once more and slipped through the door, the heavy wood closing behind him.
The dungeon swallowed the sound, leaving Snape alone with the dying torches. He stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then muttered to the shadows:
"You play with fire, boy… let's hope you remember who taught you to hold the flame."