Snow still clung to the edges of the courtyard by the time the carriages rattled back through the gates of Hogwarts. The holidays had left the castle scrubbed clean — corridors gleamed, fires burned higher, and faint wreaths of frost still patterned the inside of the windows like the ghosts of snowflakes that refused to melt.
Alden Dreyse stepped from the last carriage and inhaled the cold. It was sharp and bright and honest — no perfume, no chatter, no deceit in it. The Great Hall doors stood open, golden light spilling out over the snow-dusted stone steps, the sound of voices muffled by the heavy air.
Beside him, Daphne adjusted her cloak. Her gloves — dark green with silver-threaded runes curling over the wrist — caught the light as she brushed a flake from her hair. The gloves were new. His gift.
He'd given them to her that morning on the train. Not with ceremony, not even with a note. Just slid the box across the seat between them with a simple, "It gets colder near the lake."
She had smiled — a small, startled thing, but it lingered longer than he expected. "And you accuse me of being dramatic," she'd murmured, tracing the embroidery. "You even charmed them with warming runes."
"They work better if you don't question them," he'd replied.
Now, as they entered the hall, she brushed past him lightly, the faintest smile curving her mouth. "They work perfectly, for the record."
He didn't answer, but his gaze flicked to her hands once — satisfied — before he moved toward the Slytherin table.
The Great Hall was alive again. Banners hung fresh, floating high under the bewitched ceiling, where a pale January sky pressed close and low. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the air. Students clustered in small reunions, voices overlapping — trading stories, laughter, and the last shreds of holiday magic.
Draco was already at their usual spot, lounging with Theo, Blaise, and Tracey. He looked up as Alden and Daphne joined them, pale brows arching.
"Dreyse. Greengrass," he drawled, tipping an invisible hat. "You look like you've come from a funeral for snowflakes."
Theo smirked. "That's just his face, Malfoy."
Daphne hid a smile behind her cup of tea.
"It's early," Alden said mildly, taking a seat. "Give me an hour, and I might thaw."
Tracey leaned forward, bright-eyed from gossip deprivation. "So, Alden, Daphne — how was the break? Any dark rituals or duels to the death? Or was it all family soirées and quiet brooding?"
"Both," Daphne said smoothly before Alden could answer. "Alternating days."
Theo snorted. "Ah, balance — the key to every successful Slytherin relationship."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You lot are insufferable already. It's the first day back."
Across the hall, a flock of Hufflepuffs erupted into laughter as a flock of enchanted paper cranes dive-bombed their breakfast. Alden's gaze drifted up toward the staff table, where Dumbledore was speaking with Professor Sprout, both of them smiling at a new arrival — Professor Grubbly-Plank, whose khaki cloak and no-nonsense bun looked stark against the riot of color beside her.
"Another guest professor?" Blaise asked, following Alden's line of sight. "What happened now?"
Daphne answered, "Professional collaboration. Hagrid's keeping her on for the unicorn lectures. Dumbledore thinks it will help the students see different teaching styles."
Tracey sipped her tea. "Translation: Hagrid nearly lost a finger again."
A faint flicker of amusement crossed Alden's eyes. "Or a student."
Theo leaned closer. "Speaking of near-death experiences — you ready for the second task?"
Draco glanced around. "Subtle, Theo."
Theo shrugged. "Everyone's thinking it. Might as well ask."
The Great Hall hummed with chatter, but Alden felt the question drop between them like a quiet weight. He didn't flinch. "Ready enough," he said. "Preparation never ends, only changes."
Blaise whistled low. "Cryptic as always."
Daphne gave Theo a look that could chill water. "Perhaps don't discuss tournament matters at breakfast?"
Theo held up his hands. "Fine, fine. Just asking."
Alden reached for the teapot, pouring for both himself and Daphne. Steam curled upward, ghostlike, between them. "There's nothing to discuss," he said, tone even. "The second task won't arrive sooner for talking about it."
Daphne met his eyes across the rim of her cup — steady, certain. "And you'll be ready when it does."
He didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth tilted faintly — the kind of almost-smile that made Theo raise his brows.
It was strange, Alden thought later, how quickly the castle remembered its rhythm after holidays — like the pulse of something ancient beneath the floor. Classes resumed with the same relentless precision; ink-stained timetables fluttered from owls at breakfast; snow melted, refroze, and melted again.
By midweek, they'd seen their first unicorn foals. Hagrid's voice boomed with pride as the golden creatures pranced among the frostbitten trees. Daphne had crouched low to feed one a lump of sugar, her expression soft and unguarded in a way Alden rarely saw.
"They're warmer than they look," she said, stroking the downy mane. "Like holding sunlight."
He stood a pace behind her, gloved hands in pockets. "You're supposed to admire them, not compare temperatures."
She glanced back. "Then admire them. They're beautiful."
He looked — properly looked — at the unicorn bending its head to her hand, and said quietly, "Yes. They are."
Later, as they crossed the snowy path back toward the castle, Theo fell into step beside him. "You're different this term," he said, tone casual but observant.
"Different how?"
"Not softer. Just... less distant. Less like you're waiting for something to explode."
Alden considered that. "Perhaps I'm learning."
Theo grinned. "Or perhaps Greengrass is the only person alive who can disarm you without a wand."
Alden's reply was dry, but his eyes gave him away. "You mistake stillness for surrender."
"Maybe," Theo said. "But you look a little more alive when she's around."
That earned him a sidelong look — the kind that usually ended conversations — but Alden let it pass.
That evening, in the library, the group gathered again, parchment and textbooks spread across their usual table. Daphne worked quietly beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. Pansy muttered about assignments, Draco droned about future Quidditch selections, and Theo napped under the pretense of "tactical meditation."
Outside, snow began to fall again, catching on the high arched windows like tiny sparks. Alden's quill moved in slow, precise lines.
"Are you still thinking about the next task?" Daphne asked softly.
He didn't look up. "Always."
"Then at least tell me one thing."
He lifted a brow.
"Do you ever let yourself rest?"
He paused. The ink pooled faintly at the tip of his quill. "I don't rest," he said quietly. "I calculate."
She smiled faintly. "Then perhaps you should try."
Her tone wasn't sharp or teasing this time. It was gentle, almost protective. It surprised him more than any hex.
The firelight painted her face in gold, the serpentine bracelet glinting where it rested at her wrist. For the first time in a long while, Alden didn't reach for an answer.
He simply sat there, listening to the quiet scratch of quills, the low murmur of friends, and the snow against the glass — and realized that, somehow, the castle didn't feel as cold as it used to.
The egg screamed again.
The sound clawed against the stone walls of the empty classroom, bouncing off the arches until Theo winced and clapped his hands over his ears. Even Tracey, normally the loudest of them all, hissed, "Merlin's sake, close it!"
Alden snapped the golden shell shut. The shriek cut off, leaving an aching silence behind it.
"That," Draco said, glaring at the egg as though it had personally insulted him, "is the sound of madness. You've opened it three times now. What could possibly be left to hear?"
"Pattern," Alden murmured, turning the egg in his hand. Water shimmered faintly on its seams. "The pitch isn't random. It distorts through the air — bends. Which means it was made for something thicker."
Theo blinked. "Thicker?"
"Water," Daphne said quietly, watching Alden. "You think it's meant to be heard underwater."
He met her eyes. "I don't think. I know."
Tracey tilted her head. "So what, we find a pond and throw you in?"
Draco groaned. "Let's not. If he dies, we all fail by association."
Alden looked up then, a faint flicker of a smile touching his mouth — quick and razor-edged. "Relax, Malfoy. I'm not planning on dying in your company."
The group laughed, the sound low and nervous. Theo glanced toward the door. "Prefects' bath?"
"Better acoustics," Daphne said.
"Fewer witnesses," Alden added.
The Prefects' Bath lay at the end of a long marble corridor, sealed behind a carved wooden door that smelled faintly of cedar and old soap. Steam ghosted from beneath it, curling into the torchlight.
Alden drew his wand and traced a small sigil above the handle — elegant and exact. The runes shimmered once before vanishing, the air thickening in a way that only felt safe if you didn't understand how it worked.
"What's that?" Tracey asked.
"A silence lattice," Alden said. "No sound leaves this room. No one enters without intent."
Theo muttered, "Translation: we won't get expelled if this explodes."
Draco stepped inside first, eyes sweeping the enormous, cathedral-like space. The pool glowed under the light of hundreds of candles. The water shimmered with enchantments — silver and pearl, drifting like mist just above the surface. Mermaids carved in marble lounged along the walls, their stone eyes watching.
"Positively luxurious," Draco murmured. "It almost makes up for living in a dungeon."
Tracey's attention, however, had already shifted. "Wait—you're actually getting in?"
Alden was setting the egg on the lip of the pool, unbuttoning his uniform shirt.
"Unless you'd like to volunteer," he said evenly.
Tracey blinked. "I'm good, thanks."
Daphne, standing beside the water, tried to maintain composure — and mostly succeeded. The faint heat in her cheeks betrayed her only when Alden shrugged out of his shirt completely.
He wasn't sculpted like a Quidditch player, but there was precision in every line — lean strength, the kind born from discipline rather than vanity. A thin scar curved across his left shoulder, catching the candlelight. His skin was pale from winter, his hair almost silver where it darkened at the ends from the steam.
Theo, ever unhelpful, gave a low whistle. "Well, I feel inadequate."
"Try humility," Alden said, stepping toward the edge.
Daphne's gaze flicked away quickly — too quickly. "Don't drown."
"I won't."
He crouched, pressing the tip of his wand to the egg. A faint hiss of magic rippled over it, the surface gleaming like oil. Then, with no further hesitation, he slipped into the water.
The temperature changed around him — warm and heavy, filling his ears instantly. The egg floated before him, its golden shell dull under the shifting light. He twisted it open, and the world changed.
The screech softened, stretched — became song. A strange, mournful melody that thrummed through the water like heartbeats. The words formed not in sound but in vibration, the lake itself shaping them.
Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground…
Alden's eyes snapped open, the green-gray of them sharp as glass under the water. The voice carried through his bones — steady, rhythmic, like a current pulling him deeper.
We've taken what you'll sorely miss, an hour-long you'll have to look…
He reached for the egg as the final verse echoed faintly.
But past an hour—the prospect's black, Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.
The melody faded. The egg's light dimmed. He surfaced in a slow exhale, pushing his wet hair back, blinking water from his lashes.
The others were waiting. Theo crouched near the edge, eyes wide; Draco stood with arms folded, pretending not to look impressed; Tracey leaned forward, curiosity winning over concern; Daphne, silent, watched every detail.
"Well?" Theo demanded.
Alden tilted the egg shut, droplets running down his forearms. "It's a message. A summons."
Draco frowned. "From who?"
"The merpeople," Alden said simply. "They live beneath the lake — in caverns, deeper than the grindylows. The song was theirs."
Tracey blinked. "You're sure?"
"Voices don't lie underwater," Alden said. He stepped out of the pool, water sheeting off his skin in rivulets. "It's not just a riddle. It's an instruction."
Theo looked wary. "Instruction to what? Drown ourselves?"
Alden knelt by the egg, tracing its seam with one finger. "They'll take something from each of us. Something we can't bear to lose. We're to retrieve it within an hour."
"Something you can't bear to lose," Daphne repeated softly.
He met her eyes. For a heartbeat, the room felt smaller — the candlelight dimmer. "Yes."
Tracey swallowed. "That's… dark, even by tournament standards."
"Fitting, then," Draco muttered.
Theo gave a low hum. "And how exactly do you plan on not drowning while rescuing—whatever they take?"
Alden looked back to the egg, his reflection rippling across its gold surface. "There are ways," he said quietly. "Magic obeys water differently than air. It listens, if you speak correctly."
Daphne tilted her head. "And you know how to speak to it?"
"Not yet." He shut the egg firmly, the click echoing through the chamber. "But I will."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the faint drip of water and the sound of steam rising.
Theo broke the silence with a crooked smile. "Well, if you need a volunteer for test subjects—"
"Noted," Alden said.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You lot are mad. All of you."
Tracey wrung her hands. "You're really going to do it, aren't you?"
Alden straightened, water still running down his shoulders, his voice low and sure. "If I'm to face what I value most, I won't do it half-prepared."
Daphne exhaled slowly, watching the way the candlelight caught his hair — the way certainty looked when it was carved from will, not arrogance. "Then we'll help," she said.
He nodded once — a quiet acknowledgment.
Behind them, the marble mermaids watched, their stony smiles unreadable. The silence lattice flickered faintly, catching the last words Alden spoke before they left.
"Whatever they take," he murmured, half to himself, "they won't keep."
And with that, he stepped from the bath, water dripping from his hands like silver threads — the echo of the mer-song still humming, low and endless, somewhere behind his ribs.
The library had its own kind of weather. Dust and lamplight mingled like fog, and every sound—the turn of parchment, the scrape of quills—seemed dampened, absorbed by oak and silence.
Alden sat in the farthest carrel, the one beneath the cracked window where frost veined the glass. His notes were laid out in precise columns, each ink stroke measured, diagrams bordered by clean margins and thin sigils in the corners. At the center of it all sat a single page torn from a book older than the school itself.
"Medium is obedience; intent is the master." — Mathius Grindelwald.
He read it again, the words written in the philosopher's narrow, obsessive hand. Most readers mistook Mathius for a scholar of alchemy, but Alden had long since realized he was something else entirely: a theorist of control. To Mathius, elements were not tools but living extensions of the caster's mind.
Alden dipped his quill and began to annotate in tight script:
Water resists form because it has too many. Control demands rhythm, not dominance.Magic must persuade, not command.
Below, he drew three interlocking circles—one pale blue, one black, one silver—and began to label them.
I. Frigus Corpus — Thermal Envelope.
"Not cold," he murmured under his breath, "regulated."
The charm had evolved from his winter dueling exercises—he'd learned that the first battle against water was the body's panic. Cold was a distraction. He traced a modification of his original frost sigil, altering its geometry: instead of repelling heat entirely, it now cycled warmth at fixed intervals. A bivalent charm. Controlled, not absolute.
He flexed his hand, testing the rune's sequence; the air cooled evenly along his wrist, then equalized.
Perfect balance.
II. Pelagus Velo — Boundary Veil.
That one took longer.
He borrowed a cauldron from the empty Potions classroom—Snape's domain was deserted between lessons—and filled it half with water, half with a handful of black iron filings. When he pressed his wand against his forearm and murmured the incantation, the air thickened, rippling outward in a faint distortion.
The filings stirred. Slowly, they slid away from his skin, sheared cleanly apart in a thin, flawless line. The barrier had formed—a pocket of stillness so sharp that even air seemed to hesitate around it.
Theo, who had been watching from the doorway with an apple in hand, raised a brow."Should I ask, or just assume this is another attempt to terrify your professors?"
Alden didn't look up. "Experimentation isn't terror."
"Depends who's watching."
A faint spark danced over Alden's wrist; the barrier collapsed with a soft hiss, the filings clinking against the cauldron. He exhaled, rubbing his hand dry. "Better than luck," he said.
Theo bit into his apple. "You say that like luck ever mattered to you."
By Thursday, word of his "water obsession" had spread through half of Slytherin. Daphne didn't ask questions—she only left new scrolls on his desk: Hydromantic Principles, Vol. II and The Theory of Magical Viscosity. Tracey whispered that he was planning to drown himself and called it research; Draco said he was planning to outdo Grindelwald and called it legacy.
Alden ignored both.
The third charm came to him during a Charms lecture on protective wards. Flitwick was explaining the fundamentals of air circulation in barrier magic, but Alden's quill moved to a different rhythm entirely.
III. Sigillum Anhelitus — Breath Sigil.
A palm-sized rune, etched not into air but into the body itself—temporary, like a pulse. Its structure mimicked respiration: inhale, gather, transmute; exhale, release, recycle. If performed correctly, it would draw oxygen directly through water molecules. If performed incorrectly, it would flood the lungs with magic and kill the caster in seconds.
He flipped the page, redrew the sigil twice, then once more, adjusting the runic symmetry until the lines resonated in perfect proportion.
Flitwick's voice cut through the haze. "Mr. Dreyse—would you care to demonstrate?"
Alden blinked up. The professor's tone was patient but expectant. Around him, half the class turned to look.
He stood, wand sliding into his hand almost lazily. "Certainly."
A subtle movement, a precise flick of wrist and will. The charm expanded like a ripple through the room, rearranging the flow of air. Quills lifted an inch off desks, parchment fluttered but didn't fly, and the candles bent slightly toward him as though listening.
Flitwick's eyes shone. "Excellent, Mr. Dreyse. Five points to Slytherin. And—kindly refrain from rewriting my lecture notes next time."
"Yes, Professor."
He sat again, faintly smiling.
That evening, he found Snape waiting in the Potions classroom, standing by the counter with a small chest of ingredients.
"You requested something for… pressure adaptation," Snape said, his tone clipped. "And for cramps."
Alden inclined his head. "Yes, sir."
Snape uncorked a vial. "Barotrauma is unpleasant. Your skull will feel as if it's imploding. Take two sips before you submerge, one after."
He handed over another flask. "For muscular constriction. Not to be used simultaneously. Unless you'd like to discover what nerve paralysis feels like."
Alden accepted both. "Understood."
Snape regarded him for a long moment, the candlelight slicing across his face. "You've gone further than most Ministry researchers would dare. All this for a tournament?"
"For precision," Alden corrected softly.
Snape's expression didn't change, but his voice cooled another degree. "If you bleed in the merfolk's court, do it quietly."
Alden's mouth curved, half amusement, half steel. "I'd rather not bleed."
"Then don't be stupid," Snape said, sweeping away with his usual sharp grace, cloak whispering like smoke.
Later that night, Alden returned to the frost classroom—his unofficial workshop. The air was thin and bitingly cold, candles flickering against walls coated in ice. He stripped off his robe sleeves, revealing faint scars and smudges of ink where runes had failed before.
He drew the breath sigil across his chest with a trembling wandtip. The magic pulsed once, bright blue, then settled into a steady rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
For the first time, he could feel the air itself breathing with him — cold, alive, obedient.
He murmured to no one, "Medium is obedience. Intent is the master."
The candle nearest to him flared blue, and the frost along the walls began to shift—melting not downward but inward, like water bending toward a center that wasn't there.
Alden watched it quietly. The experiment was working.
Tomorrow, he would take it to the lake.
And this time, he thought, the water would listen.
February had turned Hogwarts pale and breathless. The grounds slept under a quilt of snow that crackled like parchment, and the lake lay still—its black surface rimed with a thin sheen of ice, the kind that only broke if you looked too long.
In the dungeons, beneath the hum of torches and the slow pulse of enchanted heat stones, two Slytherins sat at the end of a corridor long past curfew. A single candle burned between them, its flame steady and gold.
Alden's notes were spread out in perfect order: sigils, diagrams, runic adjustments. The margins shimmered faintly where he'd scrawled magical shorthand. He'd written until the quill had bled through.
Theo sat opposite, chair tilted on two legs, his wand twirling lazily between his fingers. He'd stopped pretending to study half an hour ago.
"Two days," he said finally, breaking the quiet. "You ready?"
Alden didn't look up. "Ready is relative."
Theo grinned. "Relative to what? Death?"
"Failure," Alden said.
Theo snorted. "Same difference."
The candle hissed softly between them. Beyond the door, the castle murmured—the sound of far-off laughter, a late curfew rush, the shift of stone that came with old age.
Alden leaned back, the shadows carving thin planes across his face. "I've refined the sigils. The boundary veil holds for fifty-six minutes, give or take. The breath seal lasts an hour twelve, but I'd rather not test its limits."
Theo raised a brow. "You really swam in that lake?"
Alden nodded once. "Three times. The third was... successful."
"Define successful."
"I didn't drown."
Theo laughed under his breath. "A ringing endorsement."
Alden allowed the smallest curve of his mouth. "It worked. The water doesn't fight me anymore."
"Because of the veil thing?"
"Because it listens," Alden corrected softly. "Mathius was right—medium is obedience; intent is the master. I stopped forcing the magic. I started asking."
Theo eyed him. "And it answered?"
"It always does," Alden murmured.
A pause. Only the candle crackled.
Then Theo's tone shifted, lower. "You've thought about it, haven't you? What they'll take."
Alden's pen stilled.
Theo's grin faded when the silence stretched too long. "Ah," he said lightly, "so that's the look of guilt. Haven't seen that before."
"They'll take what I'm least willing to lose," Alden said at last.
Theo tilted his head. "So me, then. Excellent taste."
The dry humor didn't reach his eyes. He caught the flicker of something on Alden's face—concern, sharp and fleeting, like lightning behind glass—and it stilled him.
"Hey," Theo said softly. "It's fine."
"It isn't."
"It is, Alden." He set his chair back on all four legs, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "If I nap underwater for an hour so you can win, I'll send you an invoice afterwards."
Alden didn't laugh. His hands were folded neatly atop the parchment, the candlelight catching the faint scars across his knuckles. "It won't be an hour."
Theo studied him a moment, then smiled—not his usual smirk, but something steadier. "There's the Dreyse I bet on."
Alden's eyes flickered. "You shouldn't have to be part of this."
Theo shrugged. "You dragged yourself into it. You think anyone else would've dared? You're proving there's no difference in magic, just in will. The rest of us are just lucky to be orbiting whatever madness that is."
Alden exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the candle. "Still. I didn't want to involve you."
"You didn't," Theo said, a small grin returning. "The tournament did. You just make everything dramatic."
A soft silence settled. Alden's gaze drifted to the parchment nearest him, to the word he'd written hours ago and underlined twice: Treasure.
He had catalogued possibilities already. Wand? Replaceable. The school would know that. Bracelet? Meaningful, but too obvious. Daphne? Possible, but the Headmaster wouldn't risk the optics. Draco? Unlikely. Blaise? Never.
That left Theo—his first ally, the one who'd sat with him before he had a name worth whispering, who'd called him friend instead of threat.
He hadn't said it aloud, but Theo knew. He always did.
"Look," Theo said finally, straightening. "You don't need to apologize for whatever happens. I trust you. If anyone's walking out of that lake, it's you. And if anyone's pulling me out, it's you again. That's just how it is."
Alden's reply came quietly, almost unguarded. "That's not something you should have to trust."
"It's not trust," Theo said. "It's a fact."
He reached forward, snuffing the candle with a flick of his fingers. The smoke curled upward, twisting in the air like a ghost of breath.
"You'll do it," Theo said into the dark. "You always do."
Alden sat in silence, listening to the echo of his friend's footsteps fade down the corridor. The parchment before him glowed faintly in the dying embers of magic.
His notes for Sigillum Anhelitus shimmered, the blue ink pulsing like veins. He laid his hand flat against the page and whispered, almost to himself—
"Then I can't fail."
Outside, snow began to fall again, soft and slow, until even the lake seemed to hold its breath.
Dinner was quieter than usual. Snow drifted outside the high windows in slow spirals, and the candles above the Great Hall floated lower, their flames dulled to amber halos. Students spoke softly, laughter contained—as though the castle itself knew what tomorrow meant.
At the Slytherin table, Alden ate little. He'd been turning his fork idly in one hand, eyes far away, while the others filled the silence around him. Daphne sat beside him, posture graceful but tense. Draco and Tracey were debating some bit of gossip about Fleur's sister; Theo, as always, mediated with a grin and a remark sharp enough to earn both their glares.
It might've been an ordinary night, if not for the subtle pressure in the air—the same quiet anticipation before a storm.
Halfway through dessert, Snape appeared at Alden's shoulder. His expression was unreadable as ever, voice a velvet edge."Nott. The Headmaster wishes to speak with you before curfew. Bring your wand."
Theo froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Alden to notice. Then he pushed back his chair, wiping his mouth with deliberate calm. "Of course, Professor."
He stood, glancing toward Alden. The faintest flicker passed between them—a look not of fear, but of understanding.
Theo smiled, faint and wry. "Don't wait up for me."
Alden inclined his head once, eyes steady. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Snape's cloak swept after them as they left, the sound fading down the hall. Daphne's gaze lingered on the empty space where Theo had been."Strange," she murmured. "Dumbledore usually makes his summons in daylight."
Alden's tone was even. "He must value privacy."
Draco shrugged. "Probably wants to ensure Nott hasn't smuggled in cursed biscuits or something."
Tracey laughed, but it sounded thin. "You're not funny, Malfoy."
Alden didn't speak. His fork was still, the food untouched. He only looked once toward the door where Theo had gone—and then down at the bracelet on Daphne's wrist, its silver coils glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Later, the dungeons were hushed, the corridors slick with torchlight and shadow. Slytherins drifted to bed in clusters, muttering goodnights. By the time the clock struck eleven, only Alden remained in the common room.
He stood by the low-burning fire, spell diagrams hovering in the air before him, runes shifting with each movement of his wand. The Pelagus Velo shimmered—a membrane of thin light bending reality around his hand. Water would slide away like silk.
He pressed his palm against it, muttering the calibration incantation. The barrier flared faint blue, then steadied. Perfect.
Behind him, Daphne's reflection appeared in the mirror over the mantel. She wore her night robes, hair falling loosely over one shoulder."You're testing again."
"Verifying."
"You've done that a dozen times."
"Thirteen," Alden corrected. "This will be the last."
She crossed her arms, watching the light fade from the runes. "You're sure it will work?"
"Yes."
A pause. "And Theo?"
He lowered his wand. "Already in place."
She hesitated, eyes narrowing. "You mean—"
"I mean," Alden interrupted softly, "the headmaster doesn't risk surprises. The treasures must be secured before the task begins."
Her jaw tightened. "You knew."
"I suspected. I confirmed."
"And you didn't tell him?"
He looked at her then, expression unreadable but voice low, almost human. "What would you have had me say? That I watched while they took him? That I stopped them and risked disqualification? He knew what it meant when he stood up."
Daphne exhaled, slow and quiet. The firelight made her look almost golden, but her eyes were sharp. "He trusted you."
"He still does."
She wanted to argue, but didn't. Instead, she moved closer, the warmth of the hearth drawing shadows around them. "You'll bring him back," she said—not as a question, but a command.
Alden's gaze softened by a degree. "That was always the plan."
She searched his face for a moment, then nodded once, the smallest tremor of relief flickering behind her composure. "Good. Because if you don't, I'll drown you myself."
He almost smiled. "Noted."
When she finally left, Alden remained before the dying fire, alone with the whisper of runes and the steady pulse of his own heartbeat.
He checked each component again: the breath sigil etched faintly against his chest, glowing blue for a moment before fading; the modified Frigus Corpus keeping his core warm; the elixirs Snape had given him, lined in exact order on his desk—one for the lungs, one for the blood.
He recorded the sequence once more in his notebook, methodical as ritual: Barrier. Breath. Balance.
Then, at last, he set the quill down and blew out the lamp.
Sleep came fitfully.
He dreamed of water that wasn't water—of currents shaped like hands, of light that bent around sound. He heard Theo's voice through it all, faint and teasing: Don't make me wait too long, Dreyse.
When he woke, the frost on the window had melted into clear beads, dripping down like time itself. Dawn hadn't broken yet, but the castle was already stirring—the quiet hum of magic gathering like breath before a plunge.
He sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, hands steady.
He wasn't nervous. He'd burned through nerves weeks ago. What remained was intent—the cold, clear kind that sharpened everything it touched.
The words of Mathius echoed again in his mind: "Medium is obedience; intent is the master."
He whispered into the gray light, "Then obey."
And somewhere beneath the frozen lake, where torchlight didn't reac,h and the world held its breath, a ripple spread outward—gentle, inevitable, as if the water itself had heard him and was waiting.