Winter had claimed Hogwarts completely. The castle's ancient bones seemed to breathe in the cold; towers gleamed with rime, and the glass of the Great Hall windows shimmered beneath drifting flakes of enchanted snow. Light poured through them in fractured golds and silvers, gilding the long tables where students lingered over late breakfast. The smell of pine, wax, and roasted chestnuts hung faintly in the air.
It was quieter now. Classes had ended two days prior, and the endless rhythm of essays, homework, and lectures had given way to laughter and restless energy. The younger years darted through corridors wrapped in scarves too long for their small frames, and older students stood in huddles whispering about dress robes, dance partners, and imported firewhiskey that someone's older brother had promised to smuggle in for the Yule Ball.
Up near the enchanted ceiling, the false sky swirled with flurries that fell and vanished before touching the floor. The tables themselves reflected the mood of each House — Gryffindor loud and bright, full of chatter and mischief; Hufflepuff trading ribbons and biscuits; Ravenclaw discussing robe charm enhancements with calculated excitement.
Slytherin, as always, was the contrast — quieter, contained, elegant. Even here, laughter was measured. Green candles flickered in frost-glazed holders, and the low hum of conversation rippled through like a current beneath still water.
Alden Dreyse sat at the edge of the table nearest the wall, posture relaxed, eyes distant. His silver-white hair caught the morning light and reflected it in cold flashes, as though he carried a fragment of winter itself. Around him, the din softened; Slytherins instinctively lowered their voices, as if unwilling to intrude upon his quiet orbit.
Theo Nott was the only one who didn't bother with reverence. He slid into the seat beside Alden with a bowl of oatmeal and a grin that suggested trouble."Rumor has it," Theo said, stirring lazily, "that McGonagall nearly hexed a fifth-year Gryffindor yesterday for stepping on her foot during the dance lesson."
Alden didn't look up. "That explains the scream that echoed through the North Wing."
Draco, sitting opposite, smirked. "McGonagall teaching people how to dance. It's tragic, really. Some things should remain theoretical."
Theo laughed. "She's probably regretting pulling us in. You think Snape would've joined in?"
Alden finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Snape has better survival instincts."
Draco grinned. "He said as much, actually. When she announced we'd be required to attend, he muttered something about 'torture in three-quarter time.'"
That drew a quiet chuckle even from Alden. The sound was rare enough to turn a few heads from further down the table. He noticed and let it fade as quickly as it had come.
The Great Hall doors opened, sending a curl of winter air through the chamber. Several Beauxbatons girls entered, cloaks shimmering like frost. Their voices carried like birdsong, drawing attention from every table. One or two glanced toward Slytherin — more specifically, toward Alden — before whispering behind gloved hands.
Theo followed their gaze, sighing dramatically. "You're aware, I assume, that half the castle has made it their holiday ambition to see if the Silver Serpent smiles at them?"
"Unfortunate ambition," Alden murmured, eyes still on the drifting snow above.
Draco snorted into his tea. "You could at least try to look flattered."
"I don't particularly enjoy being a ghost story people think they can flirt with."
Theo smirked, spoon halfway to his mouth. "That's the most Slytherin sentence I've ever heard."
Outside, the bells of the north tower rang once — a soft, echoing sound that seemed to roll through the Great Hall and vanish into the snowy morning. Students began to drift out in groups toward the courtyards, bundled in scarves and laughter.
Alden remained seated for a moment longer, watching the enchanted snow melt into mist before it reached his sleeve. The frost always fascinated him — how it could cling so fiercely and vanish so quietly, depending only on what warmth it met.
Theo stood, shouldering his bag. "Come on, Alden. Daphne's organizing something in the common room. Apparently, Tracy's trying to teach Draco how not to step on her feet before the ball."
Draco groaned. "I hate dancing."
"You hate being bad at dancing," Theo corrected.
Alden rose finally, gathering his notes and gloves. The movement drew another brief murmur from nearby students — admiration mixed with caution, as if his very stillness was dangerous.
As they left the hall, he cast one more glance toward the floating snow and the high, frost-silver ceiling. The castle seemed alive this time of year, humming beneath the cold.
"Strange," Alden said quietly as they stepped into the corridor.
Theo glanced over. "What is?"
"Everyone's waiting for the same night, the same song, the same dance… as if it means something more than a distraction."
Theo smirked. "You sound like you've never been fourteen before."
"I haven't," Alden said simply — and for a moment, Theo couldn't tell whether he was joking.
The corridors echoed with laughter ahead, the sound of magic and footsteps blending into something warm against the cold stone. And behind them, the Great Hall's enchanted snow kept falling in silence — a curtain between the world that watched Alden Dreyse, and the boy himself, who kept walking through it like it didn't touch him at all.
The dungeons were quieter at night — that particular kind of silence only stone could hold, where every footstep echoed and then folded back into itself. Green firelight flickered against the glass walls of the Slytherin common room, painting rippling reflections of the Black Lake beyond. The water pressed against the windows like moving smoke, the shadows of passing grindylows flickering faintly in the depths.
Alden sat alone in an armchair near the fire, half-turned toward it. The flames reflected off his silver hair, turning it into strands of pale bronze. His notes and a half-filled vial lay open on the small table beside him — not potions for class, but his own research: delicate handwriting, diagrams that balanced the line between alchemy and art.
Most of Slytherin had gone to bed hours ago. A few stragglers whispered near the back alcoves, their voices low but colored with excitement — every sentence, every giggle, circling back to the Yule Ball. It was the only topic left in the castle now.
When the door near the stairwell opened with a soft creak, Alden didn't look up. He didn't need to. The air seemed to change — not colder, just more deliberate.
Daphne Greengrass crossed the threshold like someone entering a sacred space. Her hair caught the firelight in pale gold strands, her posture straight but not severe. There was always an aura around her — an effortless grace people mistook for distance. The school called her the Ice Queen of Slytherin, a name whispered with equal parts admiration and fear.
But when she saw Alden, that frost melted immediately.
"You're still awake," she said, her voice softer than the fire's crackle.
"So are you," he replied without looking up.
She smiled faintly, walking closer. "That's hardly an answer."
He set down his quill. "Neither was yours."
Her eyes narrowed, amused. "You'd argue with a mirror if it disagreed with you."
"Mirrors rarely do."
Daphne laughed quietly and sat down across from him. The sound startled a few nearby students who'd been pretending not to listen. One glance from her, and they promptly decided it was time for bed.
For a while, the only sound was the fire and the occasional ripple of the lake against the glass.
Then she spoke, tone light but thoughtful. "You know, you confuse people."
"I'm aware," he said.
"No — I mean, really confuse them. You're polite, but you make half the school nervous just by existing. You barely talk, and somehow that's more interesting than when others won't shut up."
Alden tilted his head slightly, curious. "And you? What's your opinion?"
Daphne's lips curved — not a smirk, but something softer. "I think they see the myth. I see the person who forgot how to look up from his own thoughts."
He blinked, not expecting that. "That's… generous."
"It's accurate."
Theo's words from earlier drifted through Alden's mind: She's only friendly with a handful. You're at the top of that list.
He leaned back, folding his hands loosely. "Most seem to think you're worse than I am," he said after a moment. "The Ice Queen of Slytherin. How do you stand it?"
"I don't correct them," she said simply. "Let them believe what makes them comfortable. The less they know, the less they can ruin."
That earned a quiet nod from him. "Pragmatic."
She tilted her head. "You sound like you approve."
"I do. But that doesn't make it right."
Her gaze lingered on him, eyes reflecting the emerald flames. "Neither does hiding behind silence."
He looked into the fire then, and for a long while, neither spoke. The warmth painted his face in shifting light, softening the usual sharpness in his features.
Finally, Daphne broke the quiet. "I have my dress for the ball."
That caught him off guard. "Already?"
"Mhm." She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. "Dark green, almost black when the light hits it wrong. Off the shoulder. A bit traditional, I suppose."
Alden's eyes flicked up. "It suits you."
"You haven't seen it."
"I don't need to."
She smiled — really smiled, the kind that reached her eyes. "And you? You said you weren't going."
"I wasn't."
"But you changed your mind?"
"Not exactly." He paused, gaze drifting to the frost tracing the corner of the window. "I packed a suit before term began. Habit."
Her brow arched. "Habit?"
"In case I needed one," he said. "For appearances."
"That's not the same as wanting to go."
"No," he admitted. "But I suspect if I don't, Professor McGonagall will drag me there herself."
Daphne laughed softly. "She might. You're the Hogwarts champion. It would look… bad."
He glanced at her then, studying her expression. "What about you? Why are you going?"
Her answer came easily. "Because everyone expects me not to."
That drew the faintest smirk from him — a rare, quiet ghost of amusement. "You enjoy defying expectations."
"So do you," she said, meeting his eyes.
Their gazes held, and the noise of the castle seemed to vanish. The fire hissed softly, the water outside pulsed with light from unseen creatures — as if the entire dungeon waited for one of them to breathe first.
Then Daphne leaned back, tone light again. "I'll admit, I'm curious what your mysterious suit looks like."
He turned a page of his notes, feigning disinterest. "You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She smiled, standing slowly. "You realize, of course, that means I'll have to outshine you."
He looked up then, just slightly enough for her to catch the flicker of warmth beneath his usual calm." You already do," he said.
Daphne froze for a heartbeat, not expecting sincerity in his tone. Her composure faltered just long enough for a faint blush to rise in her cheeks.
"Well," she murmured, recovering, "that's unfairly charming of you."
"Not my intention."
"Of course not," she said dryly, smiling as she turned toward the stairs. "Good night, Alden."
He watched her go, her silhouette fading into the green shadows until the door closed behind her. For a long moment, he stared at the space she'd left — the firelight flickering where she'd stood — before glancing down at the ink-stained page before him.
His handwriting blurred slightly, and he realized his hand had stilled mid-sentence. The ink blot spread like frost.
He let it dry.
And when he finally closed his book, his reflection in the glass window seemed different — the same silver eyes, but softer somehow, as though the frost had started to melt from the inside.
The dungeon was still long after midnight. The last of the fires had burned to embers, and what light remained came from the wand balanced loosely in Alden's hand — a slender blade of ivory light that illuminated the frost crawling across the stone floor.
He had returned here alone, to the same forgotten chamber the school whispered about — the one someone had once seen rimed in ice and avoided ever since. It suited him. The silence was clean here, unpolluted by gossip or laughter.
On the table before him lay a collection of raw materials: silver thread, powdered crystal, and an old Dreyse sigil engraved into a piece of tarnished copper. His notes — pages covered in runic sketches and calculations — were weighted by a half-empty vial of melted frost.
Alden exhaled slowly and began.
His wand moved in deliberate strokes, carving symbols into the air. Thin veins of silver trailed behind the motion, twisting into shape — a serpentine form that shimmered, coiling upon itself. He murmured incantations under his breath, old words, half Latin, half something older still. Each syllable left a faint trace of light.
The spellwork was delicate — transfiguration fused with runic art, a technique Grindelwald's notes had once only hinted at. It wasn't power for destruction, but for precision. For creation.
As the form solidified, Alden's expression softened. The bracelet lay before him now: a silver serpent coiled twice, its scales a seamless blend of metal and frost. Where its head met its tail, a crystal the size of a raindrop pulsed faintly — neither gem nor ice, but something between, enchanted to mirror the wearer's pulse.
He held it carefully between his fingers. The metal was cold — not biting, just steady. Alive.
Alden rotated it in the dim light, studying the reflection. "Too sharp," he murmured. With a flick of his wand, the serpent's fangs withdrew slightly, smoothing into elegant points.
For a while, there was only the sound of his quiet breath and the faint hum of magic dissipating. Then, softly, he spoke — not to anyone, but to the memory of the words he'd once read in Mathius Grindelwald's journal:
"Magic is intent. To create with it is to reveal who you are when no one is watching."
Alden traced the sigil into the inner curve of the bracelet — Daphne's initials woven subtly with his own, hidden beneath an archaic Dreyse rune that meant protection through grace.
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't meant to be. It was acknowledgment — a quiet recognition of someone who had seen him, not the legend people feared.
He leaned back, letting the silver coil catch the dim light. "Magic should mean something when given," he said under his breath. "Not as a weapon. Not as a test."
For a moment, his thoughts flickered — the frozen arena, the crowd chanting his name in tones of awe and fear. The next Dark Lord. The words had lost their sting, but not their truth.
He closed his hand around the bracelet until the cool metal pressed against his palm. If they must call me something, he thought, let it be for what I build, not what I destroy.
The frost on the walls began to thaw as his magic receded. The serpent gleamed faintly in his grasp, light bending across its curves like rippling water.
Alden extinguished his wand and stood, pocketing the bracelet with quiet finality. The chill of the chamber settled around him again, comfortable and familiar.
As he turned to leave, his reflection in the frozen wall caught his eye — pale, distant, but steadier somehow. The boy who had entered the tournament to prove a philosophy now stood holding proof of something else entirely.
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Isolation and intent," he murmured. "Grindelwald forgot to mention that sometimes, the two don't coexist."
Then he stepped out, leaving the room in silence — the faint echo of magic still lingering, and on the table, a single line of frost tracing the outline of a serpent.
Morning came soft and silver. Snow drifted lazily past the high windows, blurring the edge between sky and earth. The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual — the kind of quiet that followed late nights and too many whispered conversations about dress robes, hairstyles, and partners.
Theo Nott entered with a yawn, a book tucked under his arm, his hair disheveled from sleep. He paused just inside the door.
Alden was already awake.
He sat at one of the smaller stone tables near the fire, a cup of untouched tea cooling beside him, parchment spread in a fan-like semicircle. His quill moved with mechanical precision — not the idle scrawl of a student copying notes, but the careful geometry of someone designing something new.
Theo approached quietly, curiosity pulling him closer. "You're working," he said at last, voice low so it wouldn't echo.
"I am," Alden replied without looking up.
Theo frowned. "You don't usually do that in public."
"I don't usually have a reason to."
Theo leaned over slightly to see — lines of runes, intersecting patterns of sigils, tiny annotations that curved like constellations. It wasn't just a spell; it looked like the schematic for an entire system.
"What is that?"
"Designs," Alden said simply.
"For what?"
Alden set his quill down, eyes flicking to the paper as though considering how much to say. "Objects. Spells. Constructs. Things that can act in my place when I can't."
Theo blinked. "Like— duplicates?"
"Not quite." Alden's tone was calm, analytical. "Extensions. The difference between the wand and the hand that wields it."
Theo watched him for a long moment, then shook his head with a crooked grin. "You realize most people spend the days before a dance trying not look like they're plotting dominion over physics."
"Dominion is a strong word," Alden said. "I prefer refinement."
Theo dropped into the seat opposite him, stretching out his legs. "I swear, sometimes I think you were born sixty."
"That would explain the back pain."
Theo laughed — really laughed. It drew a few glances from nearby Slytherins who weren't used to hearing that sound near Alden Dreyse. They quickly turned away again, pretending they hadn't looked.
Theo's smile lingered as he leaned forward. "You seem different, you know that?"
Alden glanced up, eyes pale in the firelight. "Different how?"
"Less… heavy," Theo said, searching for the word. "Usually, you look like you're solving a war. Now it's just—" He gestured vaguely. "Sketches and tea."
"Even I need quiet sometimes."
Theo smirked. "Quiet isn't what I'd call what you do."
He nodded toward the parchment again. "Let me guess — something to do with that frost spell you used last month? Or another experiment you shouldn't be telling me about?"
Alden's quill paused midair. For a heartbeat, the tip hovered above the page like a drawn breath. Then he said, "No experiments today."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Because your 'no experiments' face looks suspiciously like your 'I made something illegal again' face."
That earned him the faintest flicker of amusement. "Not illegal. Improvised."
"Same difference in your case."
Alden leaned back slightly, letting the light catch the faint gleam of ink on his fingertips. He didn't say anything more, but there was something unspoken in the way he looked at the parchment — a rare softness, the kind that came only when he was thinking of something beyond himself.
Theo caught it. He didn't need to ask. Whatever it was, Alden wasn't doing it for power. He was doing it for someone.
Before he could comment, the door opened again.
Daphne stepped in with the grace of someone who didn't need to try. Her dark green cloak shimmered faintly with frost along the hem — not from cold, but from the faint charm she'd woven into it herself. Her eyes swept the room briefly, and when they landed on Alden, her expression changed.
The subtle frost melted into something warmer.
Theo watched the shift, a knowing smirk creeping across his face. "Speak of the ice queen," he muttered under his breath.
Alden didn't react. He'd already felt her approach — that soft, steady pressure of presence that didn't demand attention but somehow commanded it anyway.
"Good morning," Daphne said, stepping closer.
"Morning," Alden replied, his tone calm but lighter than usual.
Theo looked between them, amused. "Morning, Lady Greengrass. You're up early for someone who spent half of last night defending Draco's lack of rhythm."
She shot him a glare that could've frozen magma. "He stepped on my foot. Twice."
Theo grinned. "You're a saint."
"Hardly." Her gaze flicked back to Alden, who was carefully rolling his parchment closed. "Still studying?"
"Always."
She tilted her head slightly. "You'll end up missing the whole holiday at this rate."
"I've already seen enough holidays to know they repeat themselves."
"Then maybe try seeing one differently," she said softly, before walking past him toward the hearth.
Theo caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Alden's mouth — not quite a smile, but close enough to notice. He filed it away because Alden Dreyse didn't smile easily.
As she settled into a chair near the fire, Alden gathered his papers and stood. Theo raised an eyebrow.
"Going somewhere?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"To rethink my designs," Alden said. "Apparently, perspective matters."
Theo's grin widened. "So it does. I'll make sure to tell her she's having an influence."
"Don't."
Theo leaned back, smug. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Alden left him there, parchment under his arm, the faint trace of frost following his footsteps.
Theo watched him go, shaking his head. "Bloody miracle," he muttered, smiling. "The myth's learning how to be human."
Across the room, Daphne looked up briefly — as if she'd heard — and for just a moment, she allowed herself to smile too.
Outside, the snow kept falling in silence, blanketing the world in white. Inside, something quieter was shifting — not a storm this time, but the beginning of a thaw.
The marble corridor gleamed like frost beneath the torchlight, every footstep echoing faintly in its chill. The castle was alive in its own way — restless with excitement and gossip. Everywhere they went, Alden could feel the hum of voices trailing behind them like ripples on a lake.
He walked between Draco and Theo, the two forming a strange balance — Draco all sharp confidence and aristocratic flourish, Theo a calm counterweight of quiet amusement. Alden, as usual, said little. His gaze flickered briefly over passing students, then back ahead.
"So," Draco said, drawing out the word like he was setting the stage for a performance, "Pansy's father sent her new robes from Paris. Black silk, enchanted stitching. Father says it'll look proper beside our family's colors — presentation matters, you know."
Theo hummed. "Yes, because nothing says romance like coordinating bloodlines."
Draco shot him a glare. "It's not that, Nott. It's an expectation. My father insists appearances reflect ambition." He turned to Alden then, smirking. "What about you, Dreyse? I imagine half the school has fainted since you asked Greengrass."
Alden didn't look up from the parchment in his hand. "I didn't notice."
Theo snorted. "That's because you don't look at anyone long enough to notice."
Draco laughed, elbowing him lightly. "Merlin's beard, the way they talk about it — you'd think you two were engaged already. Every corridor I've passed this morning, someone's whispering, 'The Ice Queen and the Dark Lord's Heir.'"
Alden finally folded the parchment with deliberate calm and slipped it into his pocket. "Creative," he said flatly.
Draco chuckled. "You have to admit, it has dramatic flair."
Theo gave him a look. "Draco, you realize they mean it as terrifying, right? Not romantic."
Draco waved him off. "Semantics. Terrifying, romantic — same thing to half the girls in this castle."
They turned down the grand staircase leading toward the Great Hall. Students parted slightly as they descended, whispers surfacing in their wake.
"That's him, the Dreyse boy — the one who killed a dragon like it was nothing."
"And he's going with Greengrass, did you hear? Figures. Pureblood royalty."
"Her family's neutral, aren't they?"
"Neutral, yes — but her mother's from an old bloodline. They say the Greengrasses funded the early Dark factions before the war."
"And Dreyse? I heard his family kept relics of Grindelwald's order. Cursed vaults and all."
Alden heard every word — he always did. His expression didn't change. The same calm detachment, as though the air itself couldn't reach him.
Theo's jaw tightened beside him. "You're not going to say anything?"
"To what?"
"They're making it sound like you're some kind of… cursed heir."
"I've been called worse."
Draco smirked. "He's right, Theo. At least this one has a touch of style."
"Merlin's sake," Theo muttered.
Alden's gaze drifted to the high windows, where snow fell thick and slow beyond the glass. The sound of laughter from the Hall grew louder as they neared the doors. "Let them talk," he said at last. "Truth is too heavy for most to carry. Rumors are lighter."
Draco grinned. "And you wonder why they call you brooding."
Theo shot him a look. "He's not brooding, he's just done."
"Done with what?" Draco asked.
Alden stopped briefly at the doors of the Hall, the echo of torchlight reflected in his silver-green eyes. "With pretending I need to be understood," he said quietly. Then he pushed open the doors.
The Great Hall was a storm of color and chatter. Garlanded evergreens lined the walls; the enchanted ceiling mirrored the soft snowfall outside. As they entered, conversation ebbed. Heads turned. Even from across the room, a few girls from Beauxbatons glanced toward Alden, whispering behind gloved hands.
Draco looked pleased with himself, basking in the secondhand attention. Theo, meanwhile, gave Alden a sidelong glance, recognizing the faint stiffness in his shoulders. "You could at least try to look like you're enjoying yourself."
"I am," Alden said, tone unreadable.
"Liar."
Before either could say more, Daphne entered with Tracey Davis and Astoria trailing a few paces behind her. The girls were mid-conversation, their voices lilting through the air like wind chimes.
"You're serious?" Tracey was saying, wide-eyed. "You actually said yes?"
Daphne adjusted the cuff of her cloak, pretending not to notice the way half the Hall had turned to look. "It was a simple question."
"A simple question?" Astoria repeated, incredulous. "Alden Dreyse asked you to the Yule Ball. That's not simple — that's practically a headline."
Tracey nodded eagerly. "You could've had anyone. Anyone. What possessed you?"
Daphne stopped walking. The air seemed to still around her for a second, the kind of pause that made people nearby instinctively quiet. Then she smiled, small but genuine. "He asked me politely."
Tracey blinked. "That's it?"
"That's enough," Daphne said.
Astoria sighed dramatically. "You know, most girls would've fainted."
"I noticed."
They reached the long Slytherin table, where the boys had already sat down. Draco raised a hand in greeting, his grin devilish. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."
Daphne's expression didn't waver. "And if it isn't the mouth of one."
Theo choked on his pumpkin juice, trying to hide a laugh.
Alden looked up at her then, just once — the briefest glance, but enough for her to see it: calm acknowledgment, maybe even quiet relief. She inclined her head in return and sat down beside Tracey, her poise flawless despite the storm of whispers around them.
The chatter resumed in full force almost instantly, louder than before. Draco basked in it, Theo endured it, and Alden simply ignored it — his attention fixed on his plate, movements precise, unhurried.
But Daphne's gaze drifted to him once more, thoughtful, curious. The flicker of candlelight caught on the edge of his silver hair, and something about the quietness of him — the way he carried it — unsettled her in a way she couldn't name.
For all his distance, he seemed the only one who saw through the noise.
And maybe, she thought, that was exactly why she'd said yes.
The Great Hall had become a living mural of sound and color — floating candles mirrored in golden plates, laughter spilling between tables, and the first soft strains of a waltz playing faintly from an enchanted gramophone near the high dais. Excitement hummed in the air like static.
At the Slytherin table, the noise had condensed into a single, polished chaos. Theo was mid-sentence, gesturing with a fork like a dueling wand.
"Of course I'm ready," he said with feigned nonchalance, though the faint nervous tick in his jaw betrayed him.
Across from him, Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Ready?"
Tracey Davis, seated beside her, leaned forward, expectant. "Yes, Theo," she said, trying not to grin. "Ready?"
Theo cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and managed something that almost sounded convincing. "Absolutely. I've planned the best night of your life."
Daphne tilted her head. "That's quite the promise, Nott."
Tracey's smile softened, both amused and touched. "You've actually planned something?"
Theo looked from one girl to the other, realizing too late he'd trapped himself. "Well—planned might be… aspirational. But there will be—uh—lights. Music. Possibly fireworks."
"Fireworks?" Tracey repeated, laughing.
"Magically controlled fireworks," Theo clarified quickly. "Probably."
Daphne shook her head, lips curving in quiet amusement. "At least you'll be memorable."
Draco leaned in, smirking like he'd been waiting for the right moment to steal the spotlight. "Memorable is one word for it. Tragic is another. I, however, have standards. Father sent word this morning — Pansy and I are to represent the Malfoy name with 'sufficient grace and dignity.'"
Theo rolled his eyes. "In other words, stand still and look expensive."
"Precisely," Draco said with pride. "Which, fortunately, comes naturally."
Across the table, Daphne exchanged a knowing look with Tracey — that subtle, feminine glance that could dismantle an entire ego without a single word.
Theo snorted into his drink. "He's going to trip over his own reflection before the second dance."
Draco ignored him, turning toward Alden, who sat between them like the eye of a storm — calm, poised, entirely unbothered by the swirling chatter.
"And what about you, Dreyse?" Draco asked, tone somewhere between admiration and curiosity. "Do you at least plan on looking alive at the ball? The way everyone's talking, you'd think the entire event exists for you and Greengrass."
Alden didn't glance up from his cup of tea. "If they're talking, it means they're not thinking. That's an improvement."
Theo laughed quietly. "You're not supposed to treat the Yule Ball like a diplomatic negotiation."
"Why not?" Alden said, his tone level. "People are more honest when pretending not to be."
Draco opened his mouth, likely to retort with something about subtlety or charm, but Daphne cut in first, her voice smooth and unruffled.
"You know, Dreyse," she said, "for someone who doesn't like attention, you have a remarkable way of commanding it."
The faintest flicker of humor crossed Alden's face — too brief to be called a smile, but enough to make Daphne's eyes linger for a beat too long.
Theo noticed. So did Draco. Both said nothing.
At the Gryffindor table, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different — louder, rougher, yet charged with the same undercurrent of pre-ball anxiety.
"I asked Cho," Harry said, voice somewhere between disbelief and triumph.
Ron Weasley gawked at him mid-bite. "You what? You actually asked her?"
"Yeah."
"And she said—?"
Harry hesitated. "She said she's going with Cedric."
Hermione tried, and failed, to hide a sympathetic smile. "That's still brave of you, Harry."
"Brave," Ron repeated gloomily. "Right. Meanwhile, I can't even get a date. Hermione, do you have any friends left who haven't laughed in my face yet?"
"Plenty," Hermione said, primly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just none who'd want to go with someone who only started asking two days before Christmas."
Ron groaned. "What about you, then? Who're you going with?"
Hermione's expression turned mysteriously serene. "That's a secret."
Harry blinked. "You've actually got a date?"
"I might."
"You definitely do," Ron muttered.
Hermione ignored him and reached for her goblet. "You two should be focusing on other things — like the fact that you're opening the ball."
Harry nearly choked. "Wait—what?"
"The champions open the first dance," she reminded him. "You, Alden, Krum, and Fleur."
"Right," Ron said darkly. "The four most intimidating people in the school."
Harry glanced toward the Slytherin table, then — toward him.
Alden sat among his housemates, but not with them. Around him, Draco gestured animatedly, Theo and Tracey laughed at something absurd, and Daphne leaned forward to make a quiet remark. The entire table seemed alive — pride, mischief, elegance — but Alden was stillness embodied.
He moved with purpose even when doing nothing. His pale hair caught the candlelight, eyes half-lidded as he sipped his tea like a man watching the world from a distance.
When Harry's gaze lingered, Alden's eyes flicked up. For the briefest instant, grey-green met emerald — not hostility, not challenge, just recognition.
Then Alden looked away.
Hermione followed Harry's line of sight, her brow furrowing. "He doesn't look like someone who enjoys dancing."
"Or breathing," Ron muttered. "You'd think he was carved out of ice."
Harry didn't answer. Because for all the rumors, for all the whispers calling him cold or dangerous, there was something else in that quiet — something almost familiar.
A kind of solitude he understood too well.
At the Slytherin table, the laughter rose again as Theo told some outrageous story about Draco's failed attempt to charm the suits of armor last week. Daphne listened with a soft smile, glancing once toward Alden as he reached for his cup again.
The candlelight flickered, catching on the faint silver ring of frost around its rim.
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw it move — as the cup itself responded to his presence. She looked up at him, curious, but his expression hadn't changed.
He simply lifted the cup to his lips, unbothered by the attention.
Outside, snow began to fall harder against the enchanted windows — soft, relentless, beautiful.
Inside, beneath the laughter and music, Hogwarts was holding its breath.
Three nights remained until the Yule Ball. And already, the world felt ready to change.