The Great Hall shimmered with early winter light — pale gold bleeding through enchanted windows, bouncing off snow that had gathered like spilled sugar on the distant lawns. Every breath hung in the air, visible, fragile, and the murmur of voices carried like soft static through the morning chill.
Alden Dreyse entered quietly, as he always did.
No grand gestures. No entourage.Just the steady, measured rhythm of his footsteps echoing across the stone.
He'd slept little, but that wasn't unusual. His mind never quite rested; it only dimmed, like embers banking low until dawn.
Theo and Draco were already seated halfway down the Slytherin table — Draco slumped over his pumpkin juice like someone awaiting trial, Theo eating toast with the air of a man watching one unfold.
The moment Alden stepped into view, the subtle hum of conversation shifted.
Eyes turned. Whispers flickered like sparks in dry grass.
Girls — not only from Slytherin but from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, even Beauxbatons — leaned in toward one another, giggling behind hands, pretending not to stare. The visiting French witches were the boldest, their silvery blue uniforms catching the morning light as they watched him cross the floor.
"That's him," one of them murmured in accented English. "Le garçon du dragon."
"The one who killed it with only one spell?" another whispered.
Alden heard them, of course — he always did. But he gave no sign, no flicker of acknowledgment. The rumors had become a kind of music by now — background noise that no longer required listening.
He took his place opposite Theo, setting down his satchel with practiced precision. Draco nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Alden," he blurted, voice cracking just slightly. "Good morning. Did you—sleep well?"
Theo coughed discreetly into his toast.
Alden poured himself tea. "Define 'well.'"
Draco attempted a laugh that sounded closer to a wheeze. "Ah. Yes. Of course. Right. About last night—"
"Burned," Alden said simply, without looking up.
Draco blinked. "What?"
"The list. You burned it."
"Right! Right, yes, I did!" Draco said quickly, as if confessing to a crime before the Aurors burst in. "Completely gone. Ash. Nothing left."
Theo leaned back in his chair. "Shame. Half the school still thinks there's a shortlist. You've got a bit of a following now."
Alden sliced a piece of toast cleanly in half, buttered it in silence, and finally said, "Unfortunate."
Draco groaned. "Unfortunate? It's a diplomatic nightmare! There were Beauxbatons girls in tears this morning. Do you have any idea what kind of reputation I have to manage for you?"
"Yours, not mine," Alden replied, voice calm but with a faint thread of amusement running beneath it.
Theo smirked. "He's not wrong. They're probably writing letters home about the 'mysterious Slytherin with silver hair and no heart.'"
Draco jabbed his fork at him. "Don't make it sound like a novel."
"It already is," Theo said, glancing toward the cluster of Beauxbatons students. One of them caught his eye, then quickly turned back to her friend, whispering in French. "Chapter One: The Boy Who Made Silence Look Expensive."
Alden said nothing. He stirred his tea once, twice, eyes lowering to the swirling surface as though watching weather patterns form there.
The hall continued its rhythm — laughter, the scrape of cutlery, snippets of gossip flying between tables. Yet even amidst the noise, Alden seemed untouchably still, the center point in a circle of motion.
From the Gryffindor table, Harry watched for a moment, then looked away. Hermione, following his gaze, frowned thoughtfully.
"He doesn't seem to care about any of it," she murmured.
"Would you, after fighting a dragon?" Harry muttered.
But the look in Hermione's eyes said otherwise — not pity, but curiosity. Like she'd recognized that kind of solitude before.
At the Slytherin table, Theo nudged Draco. "You could tell them the truth, you know."
Draco groaned. "And ruin the mystery? Please. Half the girls in this room are one rumor away from fainting. It's the best press we've ever had."
Alden finally looked up. His gaze was cool but not unkind. "Malfoy."
Draco froze mid-bite. "Yes?"
"Next time you feel the need to assist my reputation," Alden said, voice low but clear, "don't."
A beat of silence. Then, quietly, Theo started laughing — soft and genuine, the sound muffled by the clatter of the hall. Draco slumped back, muttering into his hands.
Alden finished his tea, stood, and slung his satchel over one shoulder.
"I'll be in the library," he said, as if that were explanation enough for anything.
As he turned to go, a few of the Beauxbatons girls whispered again — a chorus of sighs trailing behind him like perfume.
"Il ne parle à personne."C'est ce qui le rend dangereux."
He didn't look back.
But Theo watched him go, that half-smile fading into quiet understanding. He glanced at Draco, then at the fluttering parchment notice still pinned near the Slytherin table — the now-pointless sign-up for Alden's Yule Ball partner.
"You know," Theo said softly, "for someone everyone's chasing, he's always walking away."
Draco sighed. "And somehow that just makes them chase harder."
From across the hall, Daphne Greengrass watched Alden's retreating figure, chin propped lightly in her palm, expression unreadable. The light from the windows caught the faint curve of a smile she didn't quite mean to show.
"Let them chase," she murmured under her breath. "He's not theirs to catch."
And with that, she turned back to her tea — though her gaze, for a moment longer, remained fixed on the empty doorway he'd just walked through.
Winter had crept into the castle without warning. The windows frosted by dawn, the stones breathed mist, and the lake had frozen in half-lit sheets that cracked faintly at night. Hogwarts had settled into a rhythm of breathless excitement — snow outside, gossip inside.
Every corridor glittered with it.
Harry noticed first, of course — the laughter. The sudden abundance of perfume, ribbons, whispers. Girls moved in flocks now, arm in arm, giggling in corners, scattering parchment hearts in their wake. Even the staircases seemed to tilt toward them.
"Why do they have to move in packs?" Harry muttered as they passed another group of girls whispering and staring.
Ron grinned, half-teasing. "Lasso one?"
But Alden Dreyse, walking a few paces ahead of them, didn't even glance back. He carried a single book under his arm, thumb marking a page, mind clearly elsewhere.
The contrast was almost ridiculous.
Harry's heart raced if Cho Chang so much as looked in his direction. Alden, meanwhile, walked through the same hall as if entirely immune to human emotion — or to Hogwarts, for that matter.
When Harry's nerves twisted themselves into knots, Alden's calm was a blade — silent, sharp, unbreakable.
By lunch, it was all anyone could talk about. The Yule Ball. Dresses. Partners. The champions.
Every girl seemed to have a theory — who would ask whom, who would dare approach Alden Dreyse.
"He'll go with someone foreign," Pansy Parkinson declared at the Slytherin table, swirling pumpkin juice like it was wine. "Beauxbatons, probably. Someone mysterious enough for him."
Theo barely looked up from his toast. "You're assuming he's even going."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Everyone's going. It's the Yule Ball, not detention."
"For him," Theo said dryly, "there's not much difference."
Alden, seated beside him, flipped another page in his book — an old Arithmancy text annotated so heavily it was nearly a new language.
"You know," Draco muttered, "you could at least pretend to look interested. Everyone's waiting to see who you'll ask."
"Why?" Alden said without glancing up.
"Because you're you!" Draco said, exasperated. "Hogwarts' first champion, silver-haired prodigy, terrifying duelist—Merlin, Dreyse, you've got a brand!"
Alden's quill didn't pause. "And yet, no interest in expanding it."
Theo grinned into his cup. "That's his way of saying he'd rather die than dance."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Great Hall, Harry Potter's life was unraveling in quieter ways. He'd already been asked twice in one day — once by a nervous Hufflepuff who had barely managed to stammer her name, and once by a fifth-year who looked ready to hex him if he refused.
He had refused. Both times. Now the girls laughed when he passed — not cruelly, but in that way that made him feel smaller anyway.
"You're a champion," Ron reminded him, voice half-jealous, half-reassuring. "They'll queue up for you."
Harry didn't feel like it. The idea of dancing — in front of everyone — made him want to vanish under his Invisibility Cloak and stay there until Easter.
The difference between the two champions had become an unspoken refrain through the castle.
Harry Potter, the nervous hero. Alden Dreyse, the untouchable shadow.
When Harry fumbled his books and flushed red, Alden glided past professors like a ghost who'd already read their lectures twice. When girls giggled as Harry walked by, they fell silent when Alden entered the room — not out of shyness, but something closer to reverence. Or fear.
In Transfiguration, McGonagall announced the dance again, voice firm as ever.
"Champions will lead the opening waltz with their partners," she said crisply. "It is a tradition — and an honor."
Harry nearly swallowed his quill. Alden didn't react at all — only closed his notebook, spine perfectly aligned with the desk edge.
McGonagall scanned the class. "Questions? Comments?"
Silence. Until Alden lifted his gaze.
"I have one," he said, tone perfectly even. "Must we?"
The class froze.
McGonagall blinked, clearly thrown. "Excuse me?"
"Attend the ball," he clarified. "If one isn't inclined toward—" he paused delicately "—spectacle."
There was a stifled snort from Theo, a smirk from Daphne, and utter horror from the girls who'd been hoping for a chance.
McGonagall's mouth tightened. "It is required, Mr. Dreyse. Champions represent the school's spirit and tradition. You will attend — and you will dance."
"Understood," Alden said simply.
But the calm in his voice didn't hide the quiet disdain in his eyes.
When she turned back to the board, Daphne leaned over, whispering, "You could at least pretend to be interested."
He didn't look up from his notes. "Pretending wastes effort."
"And yet," Theo murmured from his other side, "half the castle's pretending you might look their way."
Alden dipped his quill. "Then half the castle needs a new hobby."
By the end of the week, Harry had worked up the courage to ask Cho — and failed spectacularly. Alden, meanwhile, hadn't asked anyone.
He spent his evenings where he always did — the library, the empty classrooms, the frost-lined courtyard where the lake's frozen light touched everything in silver.
He read, he practiced, he thought.
And though he never said it aloud, even Theo and Daphne could tell: the ball, the laughter, the endless flutter of excitement — it wasn't his world.
He belonged to the quiet places between them. The spaces where noise became meaning. And where silence, somehow, always followed him.
Hogwarts was humming again. December had thickened in the air — frost on every windowpane, breath visible in every hallway, the castle alive with candlelight and whispers. The Yule Ball loomed like a second Christmas, its anticipation heavier than snow.
The Great Hall had become an orchestra of noise: girls exchanging gossip over ribbons and perfume, boys muttering about suits and partners, professors sighing as if the entire concept of "youthful festivity" had personally offended them.
And yet, one name kept returning in every conversation — and for all the wrong reasons.
"He hasn't asked anyone.""Maybe he's waiting for someone from Beauxbatons.""Or maybe he's too proud."
The rumors rippled through the halls like a tide. Alden Dreyse walked through them without slowing.
Even now, weeks after his dragon duel, whispers still followed him like the shimmer of frost in torchlight. But he moved as though Hogwarts itself were just a study chamber with too much echo.
He had stopped explaining himself long ago.
In the Potions classroom, the air smelled faintly of burning sage and ash bark. The cauldrons had been cleaned and stacked away; the benches gleamed darkly in the dim light.
Snape stood beside his desk, black robes falling like smoke, quill scratching faintly as he marked parchment.
Alden waited silently before him, posture straight, hands behind his back.
"Professor," he began, tone neutral, "I assume you've called me here to discuss the upcoming dance."
Snape didn't look up. "Astute as always."
The silence stretched long enough to make the candlelight flicker.
Finally, Snape said, "Have you come to a decision regarding your… partner?"
"No."
The word dropped like a stone into still water.
Snape's quill paused mid-stroke. "No?"
"No," Alden said again, calm as snowfall. "I thought perhaps I'd fake an illness. Nothing serious. A fever, perhaps."
Snape's head lifted slowly. "Madam Pomfrey," he said in his silkiest drawl, "has already prepared three separate tonics in anticipation of such… creative strategies. You'll forgive me if I say you are not the first student to consider cowardice by way of cold."
Alden blinked once. "She's expecting me to fake it?"
Snape set down his quill, folding his hands over the parchment. His expression was unreadable — except for the faintest twitch of something that might've been amusement.
"All the professors are aware," he said quietly. "Your thoughts on the dance are common knowledge. That, and your legendary lack of social engagement."
Alden tilted his head slightly. "You make it sound pathological."
"It is, in a sense," Snape murmured. "Most boys your age are terrified of dancing. You, however, seem to be terrified of participation."
A pause. Then, with faint precision:
"You only speak to Malfoy, Nott, and Greengrass. Occasionally, at that."
Alden's lips curved faintly — the ghost of a smile. "Selective company improves efficiency."
Snape sighed, long and slow, like parchment being unrolled. "You sound exactly like me at your age."
"And that worries you."
"It should," Snape said flatly.
The faintest spark of humor flickered in Alden's eyes. "Perhaps I'll take that as a compliment."
Snape's stare could've curdled wine. "Do not."
The air lingered between silence and irony for a beat too long. Then Snape straightened, reaching for a stack of parchment.
"You'll attend," he said finally. "You'll dance. You'll endure it with whatever dignity you can muster. Consider it… penance for being good at everything else."
Alden inclined his head. "Understood, sir."
As he turned to leave, Snape added — tone quieter, almost lost in the crackle of candlelight —
"For what it's worth, Dreyse… I loathed it too."
Alden paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder.
"The Yule Ball?"
"No," Snape said softly, eyes distant. "The reminders that some of us are not built for such things."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Alden nodded — not agreement, but recognition — and stepped into the hall.
Later that evening, the castle buzzed like a hive. Word spread quickly: McGonagall was teaching the boys to dance.
From outside the Great Hall came the sound of her sharp, commanding voice:
"One, two, three — one, two, three — Mister Longbottom, that is not a march!"
The laughter echoed down the corridors.
In the Slytherin common room, Theo was sprawled on a couch, smirking as the sound reached their walls. Draco had gone pale at the very thought of being paired with a professor.
Alden sat at the window, the reflection of the lake ghosting across his silver hair, quill gliding across parchment.
Theo watched him for a while before saying, "You do realize McGonagall's going to find you eventually."
Alden didn't look up. "If she's patient enough, she deserves the victory."
Theo chuckled softly. "I almost hope she does."
But Alden said nothing — the scratch of his quill the only sound left, steady and deliberate, as the castle above laughed and spun toward Christmas.
The enchanted ceiling hangs low with storm clouds, lightning flashing in delicate silence above. Long tables have been banished to the sides. In their place: a polished expanse of floor, gleaming like black glass.
Rows of students line the edges — boys on one side, girls on the other. Gryffindor red, Ravenclaw blue, Hufflepuff yellow… and, newly added, the cold gleam of Slytherin green.
At the front stands Professor McGonagall, back rigid as a sword.
"Now, to dance is to let the body breathe. Inside every girl, a swan. Inside every boy…" she paused, glancing towards the male students"…a lion. Or, in some cases, a particularly stubborn flobberworm." she announced.
Scattered laughter breaks out. A few Gryffindors snicker. Draco looks offended by the implication. Theo leans over toward Alden.
"Think she means us?" he whispered.
"If she does, she's half right," Alden responded without even glancing up from his book.
McGonagall snaps her fingers. The air crackles. The Victorian gramophone beside Filch croaks to life, the opening notes of a stately waltz echoing through the hall.
McGonagall "Now then. Partners."
The room freezes. Dozens of girls glance sidelong at the boys — at Harry, at Ron, at anyone except Alden. The Slytherins shift uneasily, stealing glances at their champion.
Alden Dreyse, as ever, stands perfectly composed. Hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable, the only student who looks like he might rather be facing another dragon.
Across the room, Professor Snape lurks in the shadows near a column, arms folded. His expression suggests this entire ordeal personally offends him.
McGonagall spots him.
McGonagall, "Professor Snape, do try to look supportive. You will note your house is participating today, since your own… talents… are unsuited to instructing dance."
Snape's expression twitches somewhere between insult and relief.
Snape dryly retorted, "Believe me, Minerva, that thought sustains me."
A ripple of laughter passes through the students — quickly silenced by McGonagall's glare.
McGonagall, "Mr. Weasley. Step forward."
Ron goes rigid.
Ron "What—why me?"
McGonagall"Because I asked."
As she drags him into position, Alden observes quietly, almost scientifically — the mechanics of movement, the structure of rhythm, not the emotion. Theo, beside him, nudges his shoulder.
"You're not writing an essay, Alden. You're supposed to learn this," he said.
"I learn by observation." Alden dryly retorted.
THEO"Observation doesn't help when you have to hold someone's waist."
ALDEN (dry)"Then I'll reconsider my career in professional restraint."
McGonagall claps sharply.
MCGONAGALL"Everyone together now! Boys, offer your hand. Firmly, Mr. Longbottom, not as though you're reaching for a detonator."
Students shuffle awkwardly toward each other. A few brave girls from Beauxbatons — in their flowing sky-blue uniforms — make straight for the Slytherins.
One of them, Élodie, stops before Alden, smiling with disarming confidence.
ÉLODIE"You are the champion of Hogwarts, yes? It would be… an honor."
Every nearby Slytherin freezes. Even Draco leans forward, fascinated.
Alden studies her — not rudely, but curiously, like someone evaluating an equation written in another language.
ALDEN"It wouldn't be."
Her smile falters, confused.
ÉLODIE"Pardon?"
ALDEN"An honor. It's… overstated."(beat)"But thank you."
She stares for a second, then retreats, muttering something very French and very unimpressed. Draco groans into his hands.
DRACO (hissing)"You could've just said yes! She's beautiful!"
ALDEN"So are thunderstorms."
Theo chokes on his laugh. "You are absolutely hopeless."
At the front, McGonagall and Ron are locked in a sort of tragic waltz: her movements crisp and commanding, his resembling someone learning to walk underwater. The class watches in horrified fascination.
MCGONAGALL (snapping)"One-two-three, one-two-three—Mr. Weasley, stop counting aloud!"
The gramophone scratches; Filch adjusts it with a grim sort of pride. The tune wobbles into something that might've once been music.
MCGONAGALL"Again!"
Students begin moving hesitantly. Feet collide, curses whisper under breath. Pansy steps on Blaise's foot and blames him. A Ravenclaw nearly trips into a Hufflepuff.
And in the corner — Alden doesn't move.
McGonagall spots him immediately.
MCGONAGAL L" Mr. Dreyse."
He looks up, expression politely neutral.
MCGONAGALL"You are part of this exercise."
ALDEN"Respectfully, Professor, the lesson appears… well covered."
A few students laugh nervously.McGonagall's eyebrow arches like a guillotine.
MCGONAGALL"Then consider yourself a teaching assistant."(gestures sharply)"You — Miss Greengrass — step forward."
The laughter dies instantly. Daphne hesitates for only a heartbeat, then moves with controlled grace to the center of the floor. Alden's composure falters — only slightly — as he steps forward to meet her.
They face each other, the hall watching.McGonagall folds her arms, smug.
MCGONAGALL"You may begin."
The gramophone whirs back to life, the melody slow and formal. Alden offers his hand. Daphne takes it — cool, steady, without hesitation.
Their movements are cautious at first — mechanical, deliberate. But then something shifts. Where others stumble, they sync. He moves like a calculated rhythm. She follows with the precision of understanding, not submission.
The room is still. Even McGonagall seems briefly… impressed.
When the music fades, they separate without a word. Alden inclines his head slightly — a gesture of quiet acknowledgment. Daphne returns it with something that might be a smile.
Draco whistles low. Theo grins. Even Snape — from the shadows — hides something dangerously close to pride behind a curl of his mouth.
MCGONAGALL (briskly)"Well. It appears Mr. Dreyse has discovered that practice need not diminish dignity. The rest of you — again!"
The hall bursts into chaos once more. Alden steps back into line beside Theo, face unreadable.
THEO (murmuring)"You realize half the hall just decided you're secretly romantic, right?"
ALDEN"Tragic, isn't it?"
THEO"For them or for you?"
ALDEN"For accuracy."
And as the students twirled and stumbled around them, the faintest edge of winter light fell through the windows — catching on Alden's silver hair and the ghost of something thoughtful behind his eyes.