Rain came in quiet sheets across the Northumberland moors, thin as gauze and just as unkind. Beyond the slanted pines and wind-cut hedgerows stood the remains of a manor that should not have existed—a broken husk of blackened stone, roof half-fallen, its windows gaping like sockets long emptied of eyes. Any traveller passing by the narrow country road would have seen only ruin, a ghost of something once proud. That was the point.
For what hid behind those shattered walls was not ruin at all.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly perfumed with the dry tang of parchment. Lanterns burned without flicker. Floors of dark oak gleamed as though polished by invisible hands. Along the hallway, mirrors hung like open mouths, silver surfaces breathing in rhythm with the storm beyond. Beneath them padded a small figure in neat livery, a tray balanced perfectly in both hands.
"Master Alden has not eaten again," muttered Crix, voice as thin as the rain outside. The house-elf's large eyes flicked upward to the ceiling, where another roll of thunder trembled through the wards. "He cannot live on air and paper, not even a Dreyse can do that."
From the study at the corridor's end came a voice—measured, even, untouched by the weather."I am not starving, Crix. I'm conserving energy."
"You are conserving bones, that's what you are," Crix said crossly, setting the tray on the edge of the desk. Steam rose from a cup of tea and curled through the dustless light. "It has been—what?—Five weeks since young Master left Hogwarts, and he has not stepped one toe beyond the gate. Even the wards are restless."
Alden looked up from the armchair near the fire. He had always been pale; now he looked carved from the same grey stone that cloaked the manor outside. His hair, once long enough to brush his collar, had been cut close to his head in a clean, uneven crop that caught the firelight like frost. The scars that traced his neck and forearms were faintly luminous, remnants of spells that had burned too deep to vanish completely.
"I was not permitted to leave earlier," he reminded gently. "Madam Pomfrey refused it. She insisted I stay in the infirmary until my body remembered it was alive."
"And does it remember now?" Crix demanded.
"Mostly." His mouth curved, but only slightly. "She said I'd used too much of myself in that last duel. That my magic bled through muscle instead of a wand."
He lifted a hand absently, fingers flexing as if feeling the echo of a spell long spent.
"She was right, of course," Alden added after a pause. "All magic has a cost."
The elf sniffed. "And you have paid too much. You are taller, yes—three inches at least since spring—but thinner than smoke. A proper wizard should not creak when he breathes."
That earned a low chuckle. "You exaggerate."
"I do not! Even your robes hang like curtains on a draft. Eat the soup before it grows cold, Master Alden."
He obeyed long enough to take a sip. The heat made him blink; he had forgotten warmth could hurt.
For a moment, they stayed like that—the boy and the elf, thunder outside, fire murmuring within. The wards shifted, whispering through the walls like a living heartbeat.
Finally, Crix spoke again, quieter. "It is not good for a young wizard to hide from the world."
"I'm not hiding," Alden said. "The world is merely not worth the journey yet."
The elf's ears drooped. "Even so, the wards crave company. They hum all night."
"Then hum with them," Alden murmured, and turned his gaze to the fire.
The flames reflected in his grey-green eyes, deeper where the light caught the hint of old pain. For an instant, he seemed far older than fifteen—sixteen now, perhaps, in years if not in mercy.
Crix hesitated, then asked, "And when will you leave the manor, Master?"
"When I must."
"Which will be…?"
"When Hogwarts calls again." His voice was soft but certain, and the rain answered with a single shiver down the windowpanes.
Crix sighed and gathered the untouched bread from the tray. "Then I shall polish the gates, in case someone ever decides to knock."
"Don't," Alden said, a smile ghosting his face. "Let them think it's still a ruin. It's safer that way."
As the elf left, the fire snapped, and the mirrors along the wall rippled faintly, catching his reflection a heartbeat late. Alden leaned back, listening to the storm. The world might call him a monster, heir, prodigy—it did not matter. For now, the only truth that existed was the steady pulse of the wards and the quiet in his own hands.
And for the first time in weeks, the quiet almost felt like peace.
The smell of antiseptic herbs and smoke-polished oak still haunted him sometimes. Even weeks later, when the manor's air was clean and dry, Alden could close his eyes and hear the echo of Madam Pomfrey's voice—sharp as snapped glass.
"Honestly, I've patched up dragons with more sense than you!"
That day in June had been blister-bright, sunlight spilling through the high windows of the Hospital Wing. He'd woken to it and to pain, both too much for the same moment. Linen sheets clung to his chest, slick with the faint stain of blood seeping through bandages; the air tasted of spell-salve and iron.
Pomfrey stood over him like a storm cloud with a wand. "Up you get—no, stay down. What in Merlin's name possessed you to march half-dead into the Great Hall?"
"I had something to say," Alden rasped. His voice then had sounded unfamiliar, lower, hoarse. "They needed to hear the truth."
"Truth?" she snapped. "You nearly ripped your stitches clean through in front of the entire school! Do you think bleeding to death makes your message more convincing?"
He'd tried to smile—an exhausted thing that twitched at one corner. "It stopped the clapping, didn't it?"
Pomfrey's lips had gone thin enough to vanish. She flicked her wand, fresh bandages weaving themselves across his ribs in neat white lines. "You'll do no magic for a month. Do you understand me, Mr Dreyse? None. Your body's spent, and I won't have you undoing my work because you can't keep still."
He'd nodded, though the word still felt like punishment.
From the far end of the ward, footsteps approached—measured, echoing between beds. Dumbledore came first, robes whispering, eyes pale and grave; Snape followed, black as punctuation.
Dumbledore stopped beside the bed and folded his hands. "Madam Pomfrey tells me you defied her instructions before even hearing them."
"I wasn't thinking," Alden admitted.
"No," Dumbledore said softly. "You were feeling. And magic, when driven by feeling alone, will always demand its price." His gaze drifted over the bandages, then to the wand lying on the bedside table. "All magic exacts payment, Alden. I trust you understand that now."
Alden met his eyes. "I do."
"Good." Dumbledore inclined his head, and for a moment there was no condemnation in him at all—only a weary sort of sympathy. "Then perhaps you might also understand that silence can be a form of strength."
When the headmaster left, Snape lingered. The air seemed to darken around him, potion-scent clinging to his sleeves.
"See that you remember it," he said curtly, and turned on his heel.
The door had clicked shut, leaving only the low hum of Pomfrey's charms knitting bone and skin back together. Alden had watched the light crawl along his wand's ebony length and thought, distantly, that it looked patient—like something waiting for him to disobey.
Now, weeks later, in the hush of Dreyse Manor, he traced a finger over the faint silver lines across his ribs. They were almost gone, but the ache beneath them never was. When he breathed, he could still feel the echo of those spells, the weight of every incantation he'd poured into the graveyard air.
He hadn't cast a single spell since.
Not from fear—not exactly. He was simply learning what silence felt like. And for now, the silence was louder than any magic he knew.
Morning light crept through the narrow windows like a ghost reluctant to enter. The manor's high rooms never caught sunlight for long; it fractured against the wards, scattering into pale reflections that painted the walls in trembling silver. Alden sat on the edge of his bed while Crix fussed around him with a bundle of measuring charms and a length of chalk-white string.
"Stand still, young Master, please. I cannot measure you if you keep breathing like that."
"I am breathing," Alden replied dryly. "That's rather the point."
The elf's ears twitched. "Not if it makes your ribs ache again." He hovered close, brow furrowing as the measuring string flicked and coiled of its own accord. "Three inches taller since spring—how does one grow like that after nearly dying?"
"Perhaps death is good for posture," Alden murmured, watching the dust drift in the light.
Crix clicked his tongue, ignoring him, and scribbled the numbers onto a small parchment. He had grown, undeniably. The once-slight boy had lengthened into narrow sharpness—shoulders more defined, limbs stretched into the beginnings of adult height—but it was the hollowness that lingered. His skin, pale before, now carried the faint hue of old parchment; every movement betrayed a stiffness that healing spells had only half-erased.
When Crix lifted the hem of his shirt to measure around his ribs, the breath left him in a soft gasp.
The scars gleamed faintly under the morning light. Not red, not angry—silver. A web of frost-burned lines spread across Alden's chest and back, thin as ink veins, tracing the paths of curses that had struck too deep. Some glowed faintly, a whisper of magic caught beneath the skin.
"Merlin's bones," Crix whispered. "They said you were hurt, but—"
"They were right." Alden's voice carried no emotion, only calm acknowledgment. "Six ribs broken, one through the lung. Pomfrey called it an academic disaster."
The elf's eyes grew wet. "And your arm—?"
Alden lifted his left sleeve. The flesh along the collarbone and upper arm had healed into an uneven, ashen grey, a ghost of a burn that would never fully fade. "Voldemort used a flame curse—Venenum Flammae, I think. It burned through the shield before I finished the counter."
He said it as if recalling an experiment, not a wound.
"And these?" Crix's small hand hovered above the faint lines wrapping his wrists and abdomen—thin sigil-marks that shimmered faintly when the light dimmed.
"Chain bindings," Alden answered. "His magic leaves residue. They flare sometimes when I lose focus."
Crix made a strangled noise. "Lose focus? Then you mustn't duel again—ever!"
Alden's eyes flicked toward the window, the rain whispering against the glass. "That's not an option."
"You'll tear yourself apart!"
"Perhaps." He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, covering the marks again with deliberate care. "But Madam Pomfrey's potions did their work. I'm alive. That will have to suffice."
The elf muttered darkly under his breath and reached for his notepad. "I'll order robes an inch longer in the sleeves—your arms are too thin still. And boots with better padding; you still limp on the left."
Alden looked down, surprised by the sharp tug of memory. "I forgot about that."
"You forget everything except books," Crix said, scribbling. "And pain, when you think no one sees it."
The words hung in the air, soft but heavy. Alden didn't answer. He drew a long, careful breath, wincing at the hitch halfway through. The ribs still caught under deep inhalation, a reminder of how close stone and bone had come to trading places. The ache settled in like an old acquaintance.
Crix folded his parchment and cleared his throat. "You are mending, yes. But you move as though you expect the pain to greet you first. It is not good."
"It reminds me to be careful," Alden said. "Every scar is a lesson."
The elf looked up at him, eyes shining with frustration and fierce loyalty. "Then you must be the most educated wizard alive."
That drew a quiet laugh—the first genuine one in days. "Perhaps."
When Crix turned to leave, arms full of parchment and fabric samples, Alden caught his reflection in the tall mirror opposite the bed. For a heartbeat, he didn't recognize the figure there: taller, leaner, wrapped in a faint lattice of silver scars that glimmered under the wardlight. The boy who'd faced Voldemort was gone. In his place stood something quieter, colder, carved by fire and silence both.
He flexed his hand once, the faint tremor of healed nerves rippling through his fingers. Then he straightened the collar of his shirt and spoke softly to his reflection.
"Stillness, not strength."
The mirror didn't answer—but the wards murmured in agreement, and the sound felt almost like breathing.
The corridor beyond his room was long and cool, lined with portraits that pretended to sleep. Alden walked slowly, one hand trailing along the stone so the wards would feel him pass. They stirred under his touch—thin ripples in the air, like water remembering an old current. The manor didn't breathe the way Hogwarts did, but it watched him all the same.
He moved with deliberate care. His left knee complained softly with each step; his ribs gave the faintest twinge when he turned too sharply. Yet the rhythm was comforting: step, breath, creak of floorboard, hush of distant rain. No students whispering. No applause. Only quiet.
The doors to the library opened without sound. The room beyond was enormous, circular, walls climbing into shadow. Ladders rested against shelves that vanished into the upper gloom. Thousands of books stared down—leather bindings, embossed runes, titles in old languages long abandoned by the Ministry. A thin film of dust caught the candlelight, glittering faintly, like snow suspended in midair.
Crix had lit the lamps in advance. "For your studying, young Master," the elf had said earlier, with the tone of one preparing for battle. "And not until midnight this time."
Alden smiled faintly at the memory and crossed to his usual chair—an old green-leather thing, cracked but comfortable, facing the hearth. The fire had already been coaxed to life; its light pooled across the nearest table, where several books lay stacked neatly: Runic Reversals in European Spellcraft, Applications of Arithmantic Geometry, Intent Resonance and the Emotional Frequency of Magic.
He sat, careful not to pull the healing skin along his side, and opened the first volume. The scent of dust and ink rose instantly. He'd read this one before, years ago, but it steadied him—the predictability of margins he'd once annotated, the soft rasp of parchment against skin.
A faint voice drifted from the doorway. "Still reading things that make other wizards' heads spin, are we?"
Crix had reappeared, carrying a silver tray with a small pot of tea and a plate of something that might once have been biscuits. The elf set them down without waiting for permission.
"Arithmancy doesn't spin heads," Alden murmured without looking up. "It aligns them."
Crix huffed. "If you say so. I'll return in an hour. Try not to forget the concept of sleep, hm?"
When the door shut again, silence returned, deep and whole. Alden turned a page. His eyes moved steadily, but his mind wandered—to the exams awaiting him at year's end, to the Ministry's decrees creeping like rot into Hogwarts' corridors, to Dumbledore's warning about cost. All magic exacts payment.
He'd pay it again, of course. There was no other way to understand it.
After an hour, the fire had sunk low. The room filled with soft amber, and the shelves seemed to lean closer. Alden reached for another book—one older than the rest, bound in green-black leather and sealed with a single clasp. The Dreyse Codex, his family's personal record. The script inside shimmered faintly, alive beneath the surface.
He read slowly, lips moving soundlessly:
Power seeks symmetry. Control is the act of creating silence within chaos.
He traced the line with a finger, feeling the pulse of ancient wards hum faintly through the page. His wand, resting beside the teacup, answered with a muted vibration—recognition, perhaps.
"Not tonight," he murmured to it. "You heard Pomfrey."
The wand lay still again.
He leaned back, eyes following the flicker of the fire until it steadied into calm gold. The ache in his ribs dulled; the house's hum wrapped him in its careful quiet. There was nothing outside worth seeing, and inside, there were shelves enough to drown a lifetime.
The wind shifted outside, carrying the scent of rain through the chimney. Alden exhaled, slow and measured, and turned another page.
He did not notice the time, only the rhythm: page, breath, heartbeat, thunder. And if, somewhere deep within the library, the wards sighed like contented ghosts, he did not hear them. He was studying—exactly as Pomfrey had prescribed he shouldn't—and the silence of it felt like healing.