The castle woke in thunder.
Even before dawn, the Great Hall pulsed with energy — restless and bright, the kind that buzzed through the air like the moment before lightning struck. The banners of three schools shimmered under the enchanted ceiling, reflecting the sunrise: Beauxbatons' blue silk rippled like water, Durmstrang's crimson hung heavy and stern, and Hogwarts' gold and scarlet gleamed with pride.
By breakfast, every seat was full. The air was thick with noise: the scrape of cutlery, the murmur of bets, the occasional nervous laugh. Everyone was ready for the first task — dragons, though no one dared say it out loud.
At the Slytherin table, order reigned beneath the chaos.
Alden sat at the center, posture straight, his silver-white hair catching the morning light like frost. Around him, the entire House had formed a wall — a living, whispering circle of emerald and black. Draco sat at his right, animated and smug, while Daphne and Theo claimed the seats directly across, speaking low and fast. Crabbe, Goyle, and the seventh-years filled the gaps beyond, their presence enough to make passing students steer wide.
It wasn't just pride. It was protection.
The kind that radiated in the posture of every Slytherin there — sharp eyes, still shoulders, glances that warned: He's ours.
Theo set down a folded newspaper beside Alden's plate. "They've started a pool," he said dryly. "Odds are twenty-to-one you'll last longer than Potter, but less than Krum."
Alden didn't look up from his tea. "Flattering."
Daphne snorted, slicing her toast with unnecessary precision. "Shows what they know. Half this castle still thinks you just inverted Dumbledore's charm by luck."
Draco leaned forward, smirking. "Luck doesn't make the fire turn cold when it hits you. I saw it myself. It's power."
"Power frightens people," Theo murmured, buttering his bread. "Which is why they talk."
Alden's fork clicked softly against his plate. "Then let them talk. Fear has better memory than admiration."
Daphne arched an eyebrow. "You sound like Snape."
Alden took another sip of tea, unbothered. "He's not wrong nearly as often as people think."
A ripple of laughter moved down the table. The tension lightened for a moment — until a group of Ravenclaws passed nearby, whispering too loudly not to be intentional.
"They say he's already practiced dark spells.""No, not dark — just stronger.""Same thing, isn't it?"
Draco's chair scraped back slightly. His eyes narrowed, but Alden didn't react. He merely set down his cup and continued cutting into his eggs.
Theo's voice was soft. "You're not going to say anything?"
Alden glanced toward the Ravenclaws. "Why would I? Truth defends itself. Lies only need noise."
It was quiet enough for Daphne to catch the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth — that subtle, almost private expression of his that no one ever quite deciphered.
Across the hall, Gryffindor's table told another story.
Harry sat near the end, breakfast untouched, the noise of the hall pressing down on him like water. Hermione was beside him, whispering something earnest he barely heard. Further down, Ron was laughing with Seamus and Neville — a sound that stung more than the taunts from the other tables.
"You'll be fine," Hermione said. "You've practiced enough Summoning Charms to fill a Quidditch pitch."
"Right," Harry muttered. "Except now it's not a broom I'll be summoning. It's my life."
He risked a glance toward the Slytherin table.
Alden sat there, calm as a marble statue amid the storm. His House surrounded him like a serpent coiled protectively around its heart — shoulders squared, eyes sharp, every sneer and whisper serving as a shield.
The sight twisted something in Harry's stomach.
He didn't hate Alden. Not exactly. He didn't even understand him. There was something about the boy — quiet, unflinching, impossible to read — that made Harry feel smaller, as if Alden saw the world from a higher vantage point entirely.
And yet, the badges gleamed everywhere: SUPPORT ALDEN DREYSE — tap — POTTER REALLY STINKS.
The nearest one flashed just as Harry looked up, and laughter rippled through the Slytherin ranks.
But not from Alden.
Harry caught it — the way the Slytherins laughed, and Alden didn't. The way he seemed detached, watching the crowd like someone cataloguing a storm instead of standing in it.
For a second, Harry wondered what it must feel like to have an entire House move for you. To command that kind of unity without saying a word.
Hermione followed his gaze. "Ignore them, Harry."
"I am," he lied. "Just… looking."
Her eyes softened. "At him?"
Harry blinked, caught. "What? No— I mean—"
"He's not like the others," she said quietly. "You can see it."
Harry didn't answer. Because she was right — and because he didn't know whether that made him feel better or worse.
Back at the Slytherin table, Daphne leaned toward Alden, lowering her voice.
"Everyone's watching you today."
"That's what happens before they watch you burn," Alden said absently, finishing his tea.
Draco grinned. "Merlin, that's grim. You sound like Moody."
"Moody fears the shadows," Alden said. "I prefer to learn what casts them."
Theo chuckled under his breath. "Remind me not to play chess with you again."
Alden stood, setting his napkin neatly atop his plate. The entire Slytherin table seemed to shift with him — chairs scraping, voices dipping, eyes following.
"You're leaving?" Daphne asked.
"To the arena," he replied, tone as even as if he were announcing a stroll. "Best to arrive early. Dragons don't wait."
Draco's smirk faltered. "You already know what the task is?"
Alden's gaze flicked toward him — cool, precise, unreadable. "I make a habit of being prepared."
Daphne caught the faintest glint in his eyes — not arrogance, but certainty. The kind that made her heart catch before she could help it.
As Alden turned to leave, the Slytherins rose in unspoken unison. Their badges shimmered in the light, a forest of green and silver.
Across the hall, Harry stood too, alone except for Hermione's hand tightening around his sleeve.
The Great Hall watched as the two champions walked out — one wrapped in silence and unity, the other in noise and isolation.
Two sides of the same coin, heading toward the same fire.
And above them, the enchanted ceiling churned — clouds gathering over sunlight, like the breath of something vast and waiting.
The afternoon light hit like a chill. Outside, the November air bit through the courtyard. Students were already streaming toward the stands near the forest, their scarves snapping like banners. The sound of laughter and nervous anticipation drifted from every corner — a human tide swelling toward spectacle.
Alden's boots crunched softly over the frost-tipped path as he crossed the grounds alone. The castle behind him seemed to fade into silence.
Ahead, a line of professors waited near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. McGonagall stood among them, pacing, lips pressed thin. When she spotted movement, she turned sharply — her shoulders softened a fraction.
"Mr. Dreyse," she said, voice taut with composure. "You're early."
"Habit," he replied. "It gives one time to breathe."
McGonagall hesitated — as though the simplicity of his answer unnerved her more than bravado would have. She adjusted her tartan shawl, eyes flicking to the distant billows of smoke rising just beyond the trees.
"The first task will begin shortly. You are to wait in the tent with the other champions."
Alden gave a single nod.
"Understood."
He didn't ask what waited for him. He didn't need to. The air itself smelled of brimstone.
McGonagall opened her mouth — perhaps to offer encouragement, perhaps to warn — but whatever words she'd prepared died on her tongue. He was already moving past her.
By the time Harry reached the steps, she was waiting for him.
He was pale, drawn, and trying very hard to look like he wasn't shaking. The Great Hall's warmth had long since left him. The crowd noise behind him swelled like the sea.
"Potter!" McGonagall called, striding forward. "You'll come with me, please."
She didn't seem herself either. Her normally strict bearing was softened, as though she were holding the weight of the moment with her bare hands. Her hand found his shoulder, firm but almost maternal.
"Now, don't panic," she said quietly as they descended the steps. "Just keep a cool head. We've wizards standing by if— if anything should go wrong. The main thing is to do your best. No one will think the worse of you."
Harry managed a nod. The air was sharp, and his throat felt dry as parchment. They turned past the Black Lake, through the slope of frozen grass, until the scent of smoke and iron grew strong enough to sting his eyes.
And then —
He saw it: a line of trees half-hiding the enclosure, the faint tremor of the ground beneath his feet, the dull, rhythmic thud of something enormous breathing behind canvas.
McGonagall's voice trembled just slightly.
"You're to go in here, with the others."
A tent had been erected just before the treeline — not large, but reinforced with quiet enchantments that shimmered faintly around its seams.
"Mr. Bagman is waiting inside," she continued. "He'll explain the— the procedure."
Harry swallowed, his mouth dry. "Right."
"Good luck," she said softly, and for once, the words didn't sound like formality.
Harry hesitated a heartbeat too long before stepping forward. The air seemed to thicken near the tent flap, heavy with the scent of ash and something older — ancient heat.
He pushed through the entrance.
Inside, the space was warmer, lit by a steady amber glow from hanging lamps. The noise of the crowd outside was muffled — replaced by the low crackle of fire from a small brazier in the corner.
Three figures waited within.
Fleur sat nearest the fire, her expression composed but pale, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Krum leaned against a tent pole, shadowed and silent, jaw set like carved stone.
And across from them, half in the light, sat Alden Dreyse.
He looked entirely at ease — long fingers folded loosely, gaze calm and distant. His uniform was immaculate, dark green robes trimmed in silver thread, a faint shimmer of protective charmwork woven subtly into the sleeves.
If he felt fear, it was buried beneath layers of precision and control.
When Harry entered, all three turned to look. Fleur's gaze flicked over him with a hint of disdain; Krum gave the smallest of nods, as though acknowledging a rival athlete.
Alden's eyes lifted last. Cool grey-green met Harry's — quiet, unreadable, the faintest shadow of something that might have been respect.
"Potter," he said, inclining his head.
"Dreyse," Harry managed. His voice sounded smaller than he intended.
The tent fell silent again, save for the faint roar outside — a distant, earth-deep sound that vibrated through the ground beneath them.
Fleur shifted uneasily. "What was zat?"
Krum didn't answer. His eyes narrowed toward the tent flap.
But Alden spoke, calm as ever.
"Dragons."
Fleur turned sharply. "How do you know zat?"
He didn't look at her when he answered.
"You can hear the fire breathe."
At that exact moment, the roar came again — closer this time, louder, a furnace exhaling. The brazier's flames shivered.
Harry's pulse quickened. Fleur swallowed hard. Even Krum's shoulders tensed.
Alden simply reached into his sleeve, thumb brushing against the familiar weight of his wand — ebony wood veined with faint green sheen — and exhaled once through his nose.
"It's time," he said softly.
And outside, as Bagman's booming voice began to echo over the grounds, the first dragon screamed.
The tent walls trembled with noise. From outside came the unmistakable thunder of a thousand voices — the roar of the crowd settling into its seats, the rhythmic boom of feet against wooden stands, and, beneath it all, the deeper sound. A guttural, ancient rumble that made the floor shiver — breath drawn through nostrils the size of barrels.
Smoke leaked faintly through the seams of the canvas. The air was heavy with ash and anticipation.
Ludo Bagman stood in the center of the tent, his grin far too large for the tension pressing in from every side. His bright yellow Wasp robes made him look like a misplaced canary among wolves.
"Come in, come in — make yourselves at home!" Bagman said, clapping his hands together as though this were some lighthearted rehearsal and not a dance with death.
None of the champions looked at him.
Fleur sat upright, chin high but eyes pale with strain. Viktor Krum hunched forward, elbows on his knees, muttering something under his breath in Bulgarian. Alden Dreyse stood apart, near the edge of the tent, where the canvas rippled faintly with heat. His posture was composed, one hand clasped behind his back, the other resting lightly on his wand arm. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply listened — the way a scholar might listen to thunder and try to memorize its cadence.
Harry entered last, breath catching at the heat and closeness of the air.
Bagman turned, beaming.
"Ah, excellent! Now we're all here — time to fill you in!"
He shook a small, purple silk bag theatrically. "Each of you will draw a model of the creature you'll face. There are… different varieties, as it were. And your goal is simple — collect the golden egg."
The word egg seemed absurdly small for what awaited them outside.
Alden's gaze didn't leave the floor. Harry, standing nearest him, could see the faint movement of his fingers — subtle, rhythmic, tracing invisible patterns in the air. Not nerves. Calculation.
The crowd's noise surged, then ebbed into a single pulse of drums.
"Ladies first," Bagman announced, offering the silk bag to Fleur.
She drew in a sharp breath and reached inside. Her hand trembled as she withdrew a delicate, miniature Welsh Green. The model reared and hissed, a tiny chain around its neck bearing the number one. She stared at it, jaw set, then nodded once — resigned.
"Excellent! That's our first!" Bagman said.
He passed the bag to Krum. The Durmstrang champion plunged his hand in without hesitation, drawing out a scarlet Chinese Fireball. Number two. Its wings snapped open, scattering embers. Krum only grunted.
Then Bagman turned toward Harry.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry swallowed hard and reached in. His fingers brushed smooth scales, and the model that emerged gleamed a blueish-silver — the Swedish Short-Snout. Number three. Its tiny head lifted, releasing a curl of shimmering smoke.
Relief flickered through him — briefly.
That left only one.
Bagman turned to Alden, whose expression remained utterly unchanged.
"And finally, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden accepted the bag as though it were a formal ceremony. When his fingers disappeared inside, the noise outside the tent seemed to dim — or maybe it was only Harry's imagination. Alden withdrew his hand, and what he held gleamed like molten gold and iron.
A miniature Hungarian Horntail.
However, this one seemed much different when compared to the other dragons of the other champions. This one had broader wings, heavier spines, and the glint of serrated scales along its tail. Even in miniature, it exuded menace.
Bagman hesitated a fraction too long before speaking.
"Ah — yes, well. That's, er— the male. A rare sight these days. Wonderful specimen!"
The little Horntail spread its wings and let out a screech that made the lamp flames quiver. Around its neck was the number four.
Harry could feel it — a ripple of tension passing through the other champions. Even Krum's brows drew together, eyes flicking toward Alden with something between caution and pity.
Alden only stared at the creature in his hand. The corner of his mouth lifted, not in amusement — more like recognition.
"Fitting," he murmured.
Bagman blinked. "Sorry?"
"Nothing," Alden said simply, setting the model on the table. "We all face what we're meant to."
The air in the tent grew heavier. The smell of iron and soot thickened. Bagman fidgeted with his whistle, eager to flee.
"Well then! You all know what to do! Retrieve the golden egg, avoid getting… ah… roasted, and you'll be fine! Mr. Dreyse, you'll go last, Potter third. Got it? Excellent!"
He was halfway out of the tent before turning back with a forced grin.
"Ah, right — I'll be commentating, so don't make me look a fool!"
Then he was gone, leaving behind the sound of distant cheering and the faint, terrible roar that followed.
Fleur went first, shoulders straight as a sword as she exited. Her footsteps faded beneath the applause.
Minutes later came the sound of fire, of roaring, of screams and Bagman's overly cheerful voice muffled by canvas.
Krum sat like a statue, eyes hooded. When his turn came, he rose without a word, his heavy boots striking sparks as he left.
That left only Harry and Alden.
Harry's palms were slick. He couldn't sit still. The roar outside faded into an unbroken growl that filled his chest with vibration.
He turned toward Alden. The older boy's calmness was unbearable — the stillness of someone either brave or broken.
"You're not nervous?" Harry asked quietly.
Alden's eyes flicked toward him, slow and steady. "Fear is noise. It breaks focus."
"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered. "You didn't have the entire school waiting to see if you explode."
That earned the faintest hint of humor from Alden.
"They'll see enough fire soon enough," he said, then paused. "Potter."
Harry looked up.
"The past few weeks haven't been kind to you," Alden continued, his tone unreadable — neither sympathetic nor cold, merely factual. "You've been tested differently than the rest of us. Don't waste that. When you go out there… don't think about proving them wrong. Just survive. That's proof enough."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the strange, simple weight of it.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Focus."
Alden nodded once. "If you're to live through this, yes."
Outside, a whistle shrieked — sharp and final.
Krum's dragon had fallen silent. It was Harry's turn.
McGonagall's voice called from beyond the canvas:
"Potter! You're up next!"
Harry stood. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
"Good luck," Alden said softly, not looking up from his notes.
"You too," Harry managed.
And then he was gone.
The tent flap swung shut behind him, and the sound of the crowd hit like a wave. Bagman's voice roared to life — jubilant, careless, loud.
Alden watched the canvas sway. He didn't move for a long time. Then, almost absently, he slipped his wand from his sleeve and twirled it once between his fingers.
The air hummed faintly — like a held breath before lightning strikes.
"Focus," he murmured to himself. "Always."
And outside, the Horntail screamed — a sound like the end of the world waiting its turn.
The tent quaked with violence.
Outside, the crowd's roar rose and broke like a wave against the walls. Every sound bled through — the shuddering crack of stone splitting, the sharp whoosh of fire biting into air, and once — piercing through it all — a scream that carried panic, pain, and survival all tangled into one.
Harry Potter was still fighting.
The air inside the tent was stifling, heavy with ash and heat. The brazier in the corner flickered, its flame guttering as though it too flinched from the chaos beyond.
Alden sat alone now. Fleur and Krum had already gone before Harry, leaving the space hollow and humming with tension. The canvas walls shook with each tremor from the arena — like the pulse of something monstrous breathing just beyond reach.
He didn't pace. He didn't wring his hands. He simply sat on the wooden bench, wand balanced across his knees, notebook open in his lap.
Ink curved in tight, precise lines across the page — small, deliberate handwriting, the kind of script belonging to someone who never wasted motion. The top line was older, faded slightly with age, and the ink dulled to brown:
There is no difference between light and dark magic, only the intent that wields it. Whichever path one walks, there will be judgment, whispers, fear, awe, envy, every shade of the human heart. Only those who stand at the summit of magic know its loneliness. Watching Gellert taught me that.
— Mathius G.
Alden traced the last initial with his thumb, slow and absentminded.
The roar of another explosion rattled the brazier. Dust fell from the poles above. The crowd screamed, but he didn't flinch.
"Loneliness," he murmured quietly, almost tasting the word. "It never was the cost. It's the echo."
He turned the page — notes upon notes, precise diagrams of runes and spell syntax. In the margins, he had written single words that looked more like thoughts than research: Definition. Constraint. Inversion. Equilibrium.
The ground shook again, and a gust of scorched wind pushed through the seams of the tent, carrying the scent of sulfur and burning iron. It flicked at his silver hair, and for a moment, the light caught in it like a faint crown of smoke.
He lifted his wand — ebony with faint silver-green marbling — and turned it slowly in his fingers. The light rippled along its length, catching on the faint seam where thestral hair intertwined with the basilisk scale.
"Two opposites," he whispered. "Bound by contradiction. Like everything else."
His thumb brushed over the hilt, feeling the subtle warmth — the wand's hum deep and alive, resonant like a held note.
Another boom from outside. Alden didn't look up this time, but his jaw tightened.
He could hear Bagman's voice, distorted through the roar:
"— Incredible — Potter's managed to summon his broom! —"
Applause erupted. A streak of firelight cut across the tent wall, casting silhouettes that writhed like serpents.
Alden closed the notebook gently. The sound of the clasp snapping shut was small — fragile against the chaos — but it carried weight.
"There's always an audience," he said softly. "They cheer for the struggle, not the survivor."
He rose. Slowly. Calmly.
His robes whispered as they fell into place, the deep green fabric catching a faint shimmer of runic reinforcement at the seams. His eyes — that strange grey-green — caught the lamplight and turned storm-dark.
Outside, the crowd's noise shifted — the applause melting into rumbling anticipation. Another whistle would come soon. His turn.
He adjusted the sleeve where his wand slid into its sheath, precise as ritual. Then he exhaled once, steady and slow, as if to measure his heartbeat.
"Intent defines the spell," he murmured, repeating his teacher's words — or perhaps his ancestor's. "But it's the isolation that defines the magician."
The tent stilled for a moment, as though even the air was listening.
Then Bagman's voice rose again — louder, higher, thrilling:
"And now, for our final champion — Alden Dreyse of Hogwarts!"
The crowd erupted.
Alden straightened. The roar of applause felt distant, unreal — like thunder rolling across a valley he'd already left behind.
He placed one hand on the tent flap. The air beyond shimmered with heat, firelight bleeding through the seams.
"Lonely at the top," he whispered to himself, eyes narrowing. "Let's see how it feels to stand there."
And with that, he stepped through the canvas, into the light of dragons.