The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic potions and lavender polish — clean, clinical, and unshakably still. The late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows in ribbons of gold and dust, striping across white sheets and silver vials. Only one bed at the far end of the ward was occupied, curtained off from the rest like a shrine.
Alden Dreyse lay as if carved from marble — motionless, pallid beneath the thin gauze that wrapped his ribs and arms. Salves shimmered faintly where the light touched, giving his skin an unnatural sheen. Faint scars — frostburn, Pomfrey had said — laced across his collarbone and trailed up the side of his neck. His hair, once pale and even, was cropped unevenly where charred ends had been cut away. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow, but steady.
For a month now, the Slytherins had turned the hospital wing into their second common room.
Daphne sat closest, in the same high-backed chair every day, her posture deceptively composed. A small pile of wildflowers rested in her lap — transfigured into tidy arrangements with the same care she used when mending spell damage in class. Every few minutes, she refreshed a cooling charm on his pillow when Pomfrey's back was turned. The faint scent of mint filled the air.
Tracey lounged on the next bed, legs tucked under her, reading aloud snippets of gossip from the Daily Prophet."Rita Skeeter's been silenced again," she murmured, eyes scanning the article. "Somehow I doubt she's dead — though that would improve journalism immensely."
Theo chuckled softly from his corner. "Skeeter could survive the apocalypse. She'd just report on how exclusive the afterlife is."
Pansy pretended not to hear, arms crossed. "You're all wasting your time," she said, though her voice lacked venom. "Pomfrey said he can't hear a word you're saying."
"Maybe," Daphne said calmly, adjusting a flower in the vase by Alden's bedside, "but he'd be furious if we left the place looking drab."
Pansy scoffed but leaned forward anyway, plucking lint from Alden's blanket.
At the foot of the bed, Crabbe and Goyle loomed awkwardly, half-guard, half-statue. They hadn't said much since that night. They just stood there, hands behind their backs, like hulking sentinels who didn't know what else to do.
Theo had taken to reading whatever he could get his hands on — newspapers, his Arithmancy homework, even a Potions Quarterly journal. His voice filled the ward with a low, steady rhythm. It wasn't the words that mattered, just the sound of something alive cutting through the quiet.
Draco sat a few paces away, at the small table under the window. Parchments surrounded him — letters written in his sharp, slanted script. Some were furious, writing to his father in angry spurts. Others were softer, folded, unsigned. Between bouts of writing, he would mutter to himself about healers, about St. Mungo's incompetence, about how someone would pay for this. He never touched the bed, not once. His gaze drifted often, catching on Alden's face — and each time, his jaw tightened, as if the sight both reassured and infuriated him.
The door creaked.
Harry stepped in quietly, trailed by Hermione and Ron. Hermione carried a small stack of books; Ron held a paper bag that leaked the unmistakable scent of treacle tart.
"Madam Pomfrey'll have your head if she catches that," Tracey said dryly.
Ron shrugged. "She'll have to catch me first."
Harry managed a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. He looked tired — all of them did — but the lines around his face spoke of something heavier. He walked up to the bedside, standing beside Daphne. "How is he?"
"The same," she said, brushing a strand of hair from Alden's forehead. "Pomfrey says he's stable. Whatever that means."
"It means she doesn't know what's keeping him alive," Theo murmured, eyes still on his page. "But she's smart enough not to ask the wrong question."
Hermione frowned, setting the books down. "Has there been any change?"
"No," Daphne said. "Sometimes the runes on the bandages glow — only for a second. Then nothing."
Krum appeared later that day, silent as always, standing at the end of the bed with his hands clasped. "He was brave," he said in his thick accent. "Too brave. Idiot boy."But the look in his eyes said something else — respect, grudging and deep.
Fleur came the following afternoon, her presence like the sound of a song played softly on glass. She placed a hand over Alden's, just barely, and said, in her careful English, "Beauxbatons owes him a debt." She stayed until sunset, whispering in French when she thought no one was listening.
And always — always — Snape.
The man moved like a shadow through the ward, cloak whispering across the floor. He checked Alden's chart himself, murmured spells that made Pomfrey scowl, and adjusted potion doses with a precision that bordered on obsession. When Pomfrey challenged him, the two would argue in low, savage tones that carried through the curtains.
On the bedside table sat a heavy pouch and a sealed parchment — the Triwizard winnings. Snape had sealed them under ward and charm. "Until he wakes," he'd said. "He earned it. Not the Ministry."
Harry remembered that moment clearly. Snape's tone hadn't allowed for argument.
Even Sirius had come once, smuggled in under a borrowed cloak and a silencing charm. He'd stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Alden the way soldiers looked at monuments." He took Voldemort head-on," he murmured. "Refused to leave you. That's… suicidally Gryffindor for a snake."
Snape's voice, dry and sharp, had come from behind him. "Very Dreyse."
They had stood there for a long while, two men who had hated each other, united in silent disbelief.
The light had shifted by the time Madam Pomfrey swept back in, hands on her hips."Enough," she said firmly. "Out. All of you. The feast is tomorrow — and every last one of you will attend it. School rules."
Daphne's eyes widened. "Surely—"
"No exceptions," Pomfrey cut in, tone brooking no argument. "He'll sleep just the same whether you're here or not."
Draco bristled. "If he wakes up and you aren't watching—"
"He won't," Pomfrey said, but her eyes softened for a fraction of a second. "And if he does, I'll tell him you all finally obeyed a rule."
Theo opened his mouth, ready to argue logic and ethics, but Harry spoke first." She said all," he said quietly. "He'll yell if we get her in trouble."
That silenced them. One by one, they began to move. Daphne lingered the longest. She reached out — fingers trembling just above Alden's wrist — but didn't touch.
"Don't you dare," she whispered under her breath. "Not after everything."
Then she turned and followed the others out.
Pomfrey dimmed the lamps. The soft candlelight washed over the boy in the bed, pale and unmoving, the hum of enchantments steady and low.
The ward fell silent again.
The bed did not move.
Yet.
The next afternoon arrived heavy with stormlight. The castle felt suspended — every corridor quieter than usual, every whisper sharper, as if the stone itself was holding its breath. The Great Feast was tomorrow, and yet the usual end-of-term levity was absent. No laughter, no cheers echoing through the halls. Only murmurs that twisted and coiled like smoke.
Whispers always multiplied at Hogwarts, but never so viciously.
Potter hexed him. They fought in the maze — that's why Dreyse hasn't woken up. He's making it up, the Dark Lord's return, all of it. Dreyse paid the price for getting in his way.
The rumors burned through every table and common room, every classroom corner. They spread faster than truth ever could — because truth didn't taste half as interesting.
And at the center of it all, Harry Potter moved like a ghost through the noise.
He sat in the library that afternoon, alone at one of the back tables, the light from the windows dull and colorless against his skin. A few feet away, a group of Ravenclaws whispered not-quite-quietly, heads pressed together.
"McLaggen says he saw them duel in the maze—""—rubbish, there were wards—""—but Potter was the only one who came back conscious, wasn't he?"
The words hung in the air. Harry clenched his quill hard enough to split it. Ink bled into his knuckles. He pushed back from the table abruptly, ignoring the startled looks that followed him.
He had grown used to being watched since his first year. But this was different. This wasn't awe or curiosity — it was distrust. It was the look they'd once reserved for Alden.
Outside, thunder cracked faintly over the Black Lake.
When Harry rounded the corner leading to the dungeons, he nearly collided with Theo Nott.
Theo caught his elbow instinctively. "Careful," he muttered. Then, after a pause, his tone softened. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Harry blinked, taken aback. He hadn't expected concern — least of all from Alden's inner circle. "I'm fine," he said. It was the sort of lie that sounded weak even to his own ears.
Theo studied him for a moment, sharp and calm in that unnerving Slytherin way. "You've heard the talk."
Harry let out a dry laugh. "Hard not to, really."
"They think you did it," Theo said simply. "That you and Alden fought. That you lied about everything else."
Harry's throat tightened. "I didn't—"
"I know," Theo said. He shifted the books in his arms. "We all know."
Harry stared. "What?"
Theo glanced down the hall before continuing. "Snape told us. Or hinted. Enough that we understood." His tone was steady, factual. "He said Voldemort returned. That Alden fought him. That you both came back alive — barely. He said the rest of the school doesn't need to know yet."
Harry's pulse eased, though only slightly. "You believe that? You believe me?"
Theo's eyes flickered — calm, deliberate. "Belief doesn't enter into it. I saw Alden before they sealed the infirmary. Those burns, the frostbite. No duel between students does that." He paused, voice quieting. "You couldn't have done that to him even if you'd tried."
Harry didn't know what to say. The knot in his chest loosened, only to twist differently — with gratitude, and guilt.
"I—thanks," he managed.
Theo gave a faint nod. "Don't thank me. Just… be there when he wakes up. You owe him that."
Before Harry could answer, Daphne's voice carried softly from further down the corridor. "Theo?"
She and Draco were approaching — Daphne's expression composed but tight, Draco's sharper, like a blade that had been honed too often.
"Potter," Draco said flatly, his tone lacking its usual venom. "You shouldn't be down here. The younger years have started saying you cursed him. McGonagall's trying to keep a lid on it, but…" He trailed off.
Harry lifted his chin. "Let them talk."
Draco's mouth twitched — not in mockery this time, but in reluctant respect. "Braver than I gave you credit for."
"Draco," Daphne warned under her breath.
"No," Draco said, still watching Harry. "He deserves to hear it. People think he's the villain now. Alden would've hated that."
Harry swallowed. "He would've told them off himself."
That earned a small, rueful smile from Daphne. "Yes," she said softly. "And he'd have made it sound poetic, somehow."
The group fell quiet. Somewhere far above them, the castle creaked under the rising storm.
Theo shifted his weight, glancing toward the stairway. "They'll be starting the feast soon."
"I'm not going," Harry muttered.
"Yes, you are," Daphne said, her voice gentler but immovable. "Because if you don't, they'll take it as guilt. And you're not guilty of anything except surviving."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Doesn't feel like surviving."
Draco looked away first, his expression closing off. "It rarely does."
Theo brushed past him toward the stairs. "We'll save you a seat. Not at our table," he said over his shoulder, "but… nearby."
Harry nodded once, still uncertain whether to speak. "Why are you doing this? You barely talked to me before."
Daphne's gaze lingered on him — tired, sad, resolute. "Because we've lost enough this year. And because Alden trusted you."
Then she turned and followed Theo up the stairs, the hem of her robes whispering against the stone. Draco lingered a moment longer, watching Harry with something unreadable behind his pale eyes.
"He'd have said something cryptic here," Draco muttered finally. "Something about purpose and perception. I'm not him. So I'll just say—don't screw it up."
He left before Harry could answer.
Harry stood alone in the hall for a moment, the sound of their footsteps fading behind him. The dungeon air smelled faintly of damp stone and old potions — the scent Alden had always carried back to the tower after late nights of study.
He glanced toward the direction of the hospital wing — up through shadowed corridors and stairwells. For the first time in weeks, the thought of facing the Great Hall didn't feel impossible.
Maybe, just maybe, when Alden woke — and Harry believed, fiercely, that he would — he'd want to find the world still standing. Not crumbling under whispers.
He drew a slow breath, straightened his tie, and started walking toward the light.
The storm outside broke then — rain hammering the castle walls — but it sounded almost like applause.
The Great Hall had never felt so large—or so small.
Every sound echoed tonight: the scrape of a fork, the whisper of robes against stone, the soft clink of goblets being set down and not lifted again. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the storm outside, grey clouds lit by intermittent flashes of lightning that rolled like distant drums.
Harry sat midway down the Gryffindor table, his plate untouched, pretending to listen to Hermione's quiet attempts at conversation. Ron kept glancing at the Slytherin table as though daring anyone to say something out loud.
No one did. They didn't have to.
The looks were enough.
They came in waves—some subtle, some not. Hushed glances from Hufflepuffs who whispered behind their hands, pity from Ravenclaws that stung worse than suspicion, and from his own house… the uneasy space people give to fire when they aren't sure it's done burning.
Potter was the last one seen with him. Potter came back without a scratch. Potter's story doesn't add up.
Harry had heard them all by now. They clung to him like ash.
He tried not to look, but his eyes found the Slytherin table anyway.
Daphne sat rigidly, her posture sharp, every motion deliberate. Tracey leaned close, whispering something that made Daphne's expression soften—just for a heartbeat. Draco stared straight ahead, fork untouched, jaw set like stone. Theo sat beside him, elbows on the table, hands folded, gaze fixed on the great double doors as though willing them to open.
None of them looked Harry's way. None of them whispered. None of them joined in the stares.
It should have been a comfort. It only made the room feel heavier.
Every few minutes, Harry caught Theo's eyes flicking to the doors again—then Daphne's, then even Draco's. They were waiting, all of them, for the same impossible thing. As if Alden Dreyse might walk in, pale and alive, smirking faintly at all the fools who thought the story could end without him.
But the doors remained closed, and the only movement came from the storm outside, lightning flashing across the high windows and scattering shadows across the hall.
Up at the staff table, McGonagall leaned toward Dumbledore, voice low but tight. "Albus, I must ask again—are you certain this is wise?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He was watching the students: the restless Gryffindors, the murmuring Ravenclaws, the Slytherins with their measured stillness. His gaze lingered briefly on the empty space where a silver-haired boy should have sat.
"Wisdom," he said at last, "is a luxury we can't afford tonight. They need the truth, Minerva."
Her mouth tightened. "The truth may do more harm than good."
"It often does," Dumbledore murmured. "But silence would do worse."
She glanced down the table, to where Snape sat—motionless, his black eyes narrowed, his goblet untouched. "Even Severus is uneasy."
"I would be concerned if he weren't."
McGonagall folded her hands in her lap, watching the storm flicker across the ceiling. "The boy's condition hasn't changed. If he—if Dreyse does not wake…"
"He will," Dumbledore said quietly.
Something in his tone silenced her.
She turned her gaze back to the hall—hundreds of young faces illuminated by candlelight, some anxious, some defiant, most simply confused. The hum of rumor thickened like fog between them.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry's knuckles were white against the edge of his plate. Hermione's voice had faded to background noise. Across the hall, Theo hadn't blinked in nearly a minute. Daphne was tracing invisible patterns on the rim of her goblet.
Draco's leg jiggled under the table, restless energy barely contained.
It was a collective breath waiting to be released.
McGonagall exhaled softly, and her tone shifted to something resigned. "Then may Merlin grant your timing holds, Albus. Because this… this will change everything."
Dumbledore's eyes moved toward the doors, their blue depths reflecting the flash of lightning from outside. For a moment, his expression was unreadable—part hope, part dread.
"My dear Minerva," he said quietly, "it already has."
And at the Gryffindor table, Harry looked up from his untouched food at the same moment Theo Nott straightened in his seat, gaze still fixed on the entrance.
For a heartbeat, both boys shared the same impossible thought.
Maybe this is the moment he walks in.
But the doors stayed closed, and the silence stretched on.
The candles had burned lower, their flames thin and wavering, as if the Great Hall itself was straining to listen.
Dumbledore stood at the center of the staff table, his hands resting lightly on the carved wood. Behind him, the enchanted ceiling was a storm of bruised grey, lightning threading through clouds that never rained. The silence was nearly physical — the kind that hums in the chest before a spell breaks.
His gaze swept the room, pausing—just once—on the empty space at the Slytherin table where an extra place setting sat untouched, silverware perfectly aligned.
"The end," Dumbledore said quietly, yet the words carried through the hall like the toll of a bell, "of another year."
It should have been followed by applause, or the clinking of goblets, or the usual eruption of cheers and laughter. Instead, the sound died the moment it began. Dozens of eyes lifted toward him, hundreds of breaths held in unison.
He did not gesture to black drapes. There were none. Only the absence of color, the tension that hung like mourning without permission.
"There is much I would like to say to you," Dumbledore went on, his voice even, deliberate, "but first, we must speak of what did not happen by choice."
The murmur that rippled through the hall was immediate, uneasy. Students shifted in their seats, whispering names they weren't sure they were allowed to say.
"You have all heard," Dumbledore continued, "that Alden Dreyse remains in the hospital wing — gravely injured since the conclusion of the third task. Some of you…" His eyes lingered briefly on the Slytherins, who had gone utterly still. "…have heard other things. That he is dangerous. That he is what comes next."
A flicker of lightning brightened the ceiling. The faces in the crowd were pale ghosts in its wake.
"At times," Dumbledore said, "adults fail children not through cruelty, but through silence. I will not fail you, so, so not tonight."
The words fell like stones into water — and then he began.
He told them of the deception. Of Barty Crouch Jr., the Death Eater who had lived among them as an imposter, weaving lies with care and cruelty. How the maze had never been a test of champions, but a snare with only one true end. How the plan had been simple, horrifying, and precise: to place two boys within reach of a Portkey that led not to glory, but to a graveyard.
A graveyard already waiting for them.
The whispers grew louder, a sharp hiss through the hall. He raised a hand; the noise broke off like breath cut short.
"Mr. Dreyse," Dumbledore said, "did not seek that honor. He did not crave the Cup. He was maneuvered into it. Chosen by a hand that sought to break him — to test what kind of thing a Dreyse truly was."
Harry felt something twist low in his stomach. Daphne's fingers were clasped white-knuckled around the edge of the table. Theo stared down at his plate, jaw set, his throat working silently.
"The injuries you saw upon his return," Dumbledore said, his tone cooling, "were not a spectacle. They were the marks of one who did not run when Lord Voldemort rose again."
A gasp rippled through the room — that name, spoken so plainly.
Dumbledore did not pause. "Alden Dreyse stood between Voldemort and Harry Potter and chose—deliberately—that if any boy left that place alive, it would not be at the cost of the other."
Someone near the Gryffindor table made a small, broken sound — a disbelieving laugh that died in their throat. A bench scraped. All along the Slytherin table, faces had gone paper-white.
Theo's eyes glistened, though he blinked the tears away with furious precision. Daphne covered her mouth, a sound caught behind her hand. Draco's head was bowed, his hair a curtain that hid everything but the way his fingers dug into the table.
"At fifteen," Dumbledore went on, "they faced what grown witches and wizards have fallen before. Alden Dreyse pushed himself beyond reason, beyond safety, beyond sanity. It was not clean. It was not noble. It was survival — and sacrifice."
Even Snape's composure faltered. His hands clenched white around the edge of his chair; his eyes were down, but his shoulders were rigid, as though the words themselves were cutting through him.
"The whispers you have heard," Dumbledore said, "about Alden Dreyse as the next Dark Lord — a title born of fear and ignorance — reached the ears of a man who served the current one. That man decided to test such a rumor."
He paused, and the storm outside punctuated the silence with a low, distant roll of thunder.
"In that graveyard, it was proven false in the only way that matters. When confronted with Voldemort himself, Alden Dreyse chose not ambition, not power, not even survival — but protection."
Harry swallowed hard. The image came unbidden — frost and fire and the gleam of a broken ring. The way Alden had looked at him before collapsing, that single eye open, commanding him to run.
Across the tables, Fleur bowed her head, her hand over her heart. Krum sat like a statue, eyes dark and unblinking.
Dumbledore let the weight of the truth sink in. The silence stretched long enough that every student could hear their own heartbeat.
"The Ministry of Magic," he said at last, his voice sharper now, iron beneath velvet, "would rather I spare you such things. They will say this is too much truth for children. They are wrong. The Dark Lord has returned. Pretending otherwise will not protect you."
A tremor went through the crowd.
"You deserve to know," Dumbledore continued, "that one of your own — one you feared, or mocked, or admired — met him, and did not bend. That in the darkest hour, a boy who the world believed born of shadow proved that courage does not care for reputation."
He turned slightly, his gaze resting on the Slytherin table. "Whatever house ties you bear, whatever you thought of him, I ask you now to remember that."
The hall was utterly still. Even the enchanted candles seemed to dim.
Some Slytherins lowered their heads. Others stared blankly, shell-shocked. A few blinked rapidly, as if struggling to process that the person they'd whispered about for years had become the line between Voldemort and the rest of them.
"The Triwizard Tournament promised glory," Dumbledore said, his tone softening. "Instead, it brought a warning. The prize owed to our Hogwarts champion will remain untouched until he may claim it himself."
Snape's head lifted at that — the faintest flicker of acknowledgment crossing his face.
Dumbledore drew a slow breath, eyes sweeping the room once more. "Now," he said, "there is another who must be named. Harry Potter—"
The doors of the Great Hall exploded open.
The sound crashed through the silence like thunder made flesh, the old oak panels slamming back against the stone. A gust of cold wind rushed in, scattering candles and sending tablecloths whipping.
Every head in the hall turned.
And for a heartbeat, no one breathed.