Morning had barely woken over the moors when Crix's footsteps echoed down the corridor — quick, anxious, accompanied by the faint rattle of a silver tray. The elf's ears twitched before he even entered; something in his hands rustled like the sound of parchment folded too carefully.
Alden sat by the window of the manor's breakfast room, one leg tucked beneath the other, tea cooling untouched at his elbow. The light through the glass was thin and colorless, stretching pale against his skin. He'd been up for hours — reading, not eating — and the silence had settled comfortably over him.
"Young Master," Crix began, his voice unsteady, "a letter from Gringotts arrived not half an hour ago—sealed, official, signed by a goblin and, ah, Professor Snape."
Alden turned his head lazily, one silver strand of hair falling across his temple. "Snape?"
"Yes, sir." Crix's small hands trembled as he broke the wax seal. "It says the Triwizard Tournament winnings have been—" He squinted at the script. "—transferred in full to Mr. Harry James Potter of Number Four, Privet Drive. Per your instruction."
The elf's gaze snapped up, scandalized. "You gave it away?!"
Alden leaned back in his chair, unhurried. "I told him to hold it until I'd decided what to do with it. Consider it decided."
"But—but a thousand Galleons, Master Alden!" Crix's voice rose in disbelief. "You could've—built a wing! Bought another library! Paid for a dozen house-elves!"
A faint smirk tugged at Alden's mouth. "I've already got you. Why would I need twelve more?"
Crix huffed, pacing in small, furious circles, muttering about "extravagant humans with no sense of value." He stopped abruptly and slammed the parchment onto the table, the wax still warm. "Harry Potter does not need your gold!"
Alden's eyes softened slightly. "He does. Just not for the reasons you think."
The elf blinked, confused.
"The Prophet will call it charity or guilt," Alden continued, voice quiet but certain. "They'll say I'm trying to clear my name after the graveyard. Let them. The truth's simpler — he earned it."
Crix looked utterly lost. "Earned? But you won the Tournament!"
"I won a game," Alden said, sipping his tea at last. "He survived a war."He set the cup down, watching the ripple fade. "He was manipulated into that maze, forced to touch the same portkey I did. I only made it back because he bought me time. That seems worth more than gold."
The elf's shoulders slumped. "Still—he'll never thank you."
"I don't need him to." Alden's gaze drifted toward the window, where the morning fog curled over the hills. "I'm not buying gratitude. Just balance."
He rose then, slow and graceful, the faint hitch of his ribs hidden beneath his measured movements. The parchment fluttered in the draft as he passed. He paused, glanced down at it once, then said softly, almost to himself:
"Gold's loud. Silence lasts longer."
Crix frowned. "And what does the Prophet say to that, I wonder?"
Alden looked over his shoulder, eyes cool and faintly amused. "Whatever sells the most copies."
The elf left in a huff, muttering about wastefulness and "ungrateful Gryffindors." Alden remained by the window, watching the fog retreat from the moors. Somewhere beyond it lay the world of gossip and headlines, of Ministers and their fears. Here, the only sound was the quiet heartbeat of the manor and the faint hum of wards keeping the noise away.
He smiled once, thin and tired, then turned toward the study. There was a certain peace in knowing his name was already being dragged through the papers. It meant no one expected kindness from him — and that made it easier to give without explanation.
He lifted the teacup again, now cold, and murmured into the quiet:
"He needs it more than I ever will."
And for once, the manor did not argue.
Afternoon sunlight sprawled lazily across the manor's drawing room, slipping through tall mullioned windows and pooling gold across the carpet. The room smelled faintly of parchment and cedar polish; somewhere, a clock ticked the hour in patient rhythm.
Alden lay half-stretched on the green velvet couch, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting loosely on his chest. For the first time in weeks, his breathing came steady — shallow, perhaps, but peaceful. Above him hung the portrait of his parents; the colors faded, but alive enough that the eyes still followed him when he moved. His mother's expression — poised, distant, soft around the edges — had always seemed both proud and sorrowful. His father's gaze, stern but kind, lingered with the same calm silence Alden had inherited.
He wasn't sure if the painting remembered him.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate. The light shifted across the floorboards, brushing against the faint silver scars along his wrist. Somewhere beyond the walls, birds called across the moors, indifferent to gold, politics, or history. For a moment, the world held still.
Then came the sharp crack of apparition.
Crix appeared in front of the couch, clutching the Daily Prophet as if it were a cursed artifact. His ears were rigid, eyes wide and gleaming.
"Young Master!" the elf squeaked, voice pitched between horror and fury. "They've written it—again!"
Alden didn't move, only sighed through his nose. "I was just beginning to enjoy the quiet."
Crix ignored the warning tone and thrust the paper forward. "You must see this! 'The Dark Heir's Bribe—What Really Happened in the Maze?' That's the headline! They're saying dreadful things—about you, about the Tournament!"
Alden lowered his arm, squinting slightly against the brightness as he sat up. "The maze?" he repeated, slow, as if tasting the word. "Not the graveyard?"
"They wouldn't print anything about graveyards, sir. The Ministry says it's all hysteria—rumors spread by Dumbledore." Crix's thin fingers shook the newspaper, rustling indignantly. "They claim something happened in the maze that night. That you—oh, it's vile—that you struck a deal with Potter to ensure your victory! That the prize gold was hush money to keep him from revealing it!"
Alden rubbed at his temple, eyes half-lidded. "Let me see."
Crix hesitated, then handed it over as if surrendering a poisoned dart. The headline sprawled across the top in bold ink:
THE DARK HEIR'S BRIBE? Sources within the Department of Magical Games and Sports suggest foul play during the Triwizard Maze.
Beneath it, a subheading in smaller print:
Champion Alden Dreyse allegedly 'conspired' with fellow competitor Harry Potter to share victory. Questions arise over sudden donation of winnings—was it generosity, or guilt?
Alden skimmed the rest — paragraphs laced with speculation, unnamed "officials," and the familiar undertone of fear. Not a single mention of Voldemort. Not a whisper of the dead or the dark. Just bureaucracy dressing up cowardice.
When he finished, he folded the paper neatly in half and set it beside him on the couch.
Crix's voice trembled. "They're calling you a cheat, young Master. A manipulator. They even quoted one witch saying you bewitched the maze itself—'a trick of dark lineage,' she called it!"
Alden's lips twitched — not in amusement, not quite. "I suppose it makes for a better story than the truth."
"The truth?" Crix demanded, pacing in small, sharp steps. "That you nearly died in that place? That you saved the Potter boy? That you—"
"—touched the Cup together," Alden finished quietly. His eyes drifted toward the window, to the sun slicing through the mist. "Yes. I remember."
He leaned back again, voice low, reflective. "They need someone to blame, Crix. If they admit the maze led to something darker, they'll have to admit they let it happen. Better to call it collusion. Easier than courage."
The elf stopped pacing. "But it isn't fair!"
"No," Alden agreed, almost smiling. "It's politics."
Crix's hands clenched around the Prophet, crumpling its edges. "Professor Dumbledore should say something—should defend you—"
"He won't," Alden interrupted softly. "He knows better than to shout into a storm."
He looked up at his parents' portrait again. His father's painted mouth seemed to press into a thin, knowing line. His mother's eyes looked like they wanted to speak, but couldn't.
"Let them write what they like," he said finally. "The truth doesn't need an audience."
Crix's face fell. "You sound just like him," he muttered.
Alden raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Professor Snape," the elf grumbled. "Cold as the dungeons, that one."
A low laugh escaped Alden's throat, quiet but genuine. "Then I'll take that as a compliment."
Crix looked ready to argue again, but the young wizard was already lying back, one arm behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling where light rippled faintly like water. The crumpled Prophet slid from Crix's hands to the carpet, landing face down.
Outside, the sun continued its slow descent, unbothered by rumor or reputation. Inside, Alden closed his eyes and whispered under his breath, as if to the painted silence above:
"They'll believe what they need to believe."
And for the first time in days, he let himself drift toward sleep — not because the world was kind, but because he'd stopped expecting it to be.
The manor was quiet that afternoon, its stillness filled only by the slow drift of sunlight through gauze curtains and the whisper of summer wind pressing faintly against the glass.On Alden's desk lay a small, untidy pile of envelopes — different colors, different seals — the kind of thing that, in other households, might have looked ordinary. Here, it was a curiosity. Few people wrote to Dreyse Manor anymore.
He set aside the quill he hadn't used all morning and drew the first letter toward him.
Daphne's Letter
The parchment smelled faintly of lilac. Her handwriting, elegant and deliberate, slanted just slightly — every stroke confident, even where the ink thinned.
Alden,
Astoria insists I tell you she's taught the garden gnomes to salute whenever Father walks by. I think she'll be hexed before summer's end. It's been unseasonably cold — Mother says the wards are overcompensating again, but I think she just misses the sun.
You haven't written. Not once. You didn't come back on the train, and no one's seen you since the Great Hall. If you mean to vanish, at least tell us it's by choice.
Fifth year is coming, and I expect to see you there. Don't let the Prophet decide your story for you. And—well, I have a surprise for you. Something you'll like. Try not to be late for it.
—Daphne.
Alden's mouth softened at the corners. Trust her to sound perfectly composed even when she was worried. He could almost hear her tone — clipped, calm, masking something gentler beneath.
He turned the parchment over once, thumb tracing the faint crease where she'd pressed too hard with her quill. Then he set it aside, careful, as though it might bruise.
Theo's Letter
The next envelope was crookedly sealed, ink smudged at the corner — unmistakably Theodore Nott.
Dreyse,
Still alive, then? I assume so, unless the Prophet's hiding your obituary under "classifieds." I'd ask how you are, but I doubt you'd answer honestly, so let's pretend you said "fine."
We haven't spoken since you walked into that maze. Father's been acting strange ever since — quieter, meaner, if that makes sense. It's like he's waiting for something. I don't ask what.
On the bright side, I redid the Arithmancy charts we argued about last term. You were right, the resonance factors cancel if you invert the emotional variable. You win. Again. I hate you.
Write back, at least so I know you're not haunting the manor. If you are, you're doing a decent job of it.
—Theo.
Alden smiled — a quiet, almost reluctant thing. Theo's humor always carried a pulse of truth beneath it. He folded the letter twice, neatly, before placing it atop Daphne's. The faint ache that followed wasn't from his ribs.
Draco's Letter
The parchment of the third letter was heavier, its edges trimmed in green and silver. The handwriting tried too hard — elegant flourishes, perfectly measured lines — as if the writer wanted to impress and couldn't quite hide the effort.
Alden,
Father's been impossible. The Ministry's worse. They're pretending everything's fine — as if ignoring Him will make Him disappear. It's pathetic. I know what you said in the Hall was true, no matter what the Prophet writes. Let them sneer; they'd soil themselves if they saw what you faced.
Anyway, Quidditch tryouts are next term. You should consider joining — Slytherin could use someone who doesn't fumble under pressure. Imagine Potter's face if you caught the Snitch before him. It'd almost be worth the paperwork.
We thought you'd at least send word. Mother says recovery takes time. I say you're just avoiding people.
—Draco.
There was a blot near the signature, a dark bloom of ink that had soaked deep into the parchment. Alden stared at it for a long moment before setting it down. For all Draco's swagger, his worry leaked through the cracks like light under a door.
Lucius Malfoy's Letter
The final envelope bore heavy green wax stamped with the Malfoy crest. The handwriting was immaculate — measured, practiced, but human in a way Alden hadn't expected.
Mr. Dreyse,
What occurred on June twenty-fourth cannot be undone. You may despise me for my inaction; I would not fault you for it. You understand, however, better than most, that He is not one to be interfered with.
Do not punish Draco for what you believe my silence cost. He speaks of you with a loyalty rare in any house — rarer still in ours. You, of all people, know the cost of divided loyalties. I trust your sense of honor will protect him, as his friendship has protected you.
—Lucius Malfoy.
Alden read the letter twice, expression unreadable. The parchment felt heavier than it should have, as if the ink itself carried weight.
When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, the sun glancing off his hair and painting the scars along his wrist in pale gold. Four letters, four echoes of lives that still reached toward him despite his silence.
He reached for his quill, dipped it into ink, and began to write.
To Daphne: I'm not vanishing, merely resting. Some silences teach more than letters. I'll see your surprise in September.
To Theo: tell your father to keep his silence; tell yourself not to. The variable inverts again.
To Draco: the world's built on avoiding people. I just happen to be better at it. Tryouts sound tedious. Convince me otherwise.
To Lucius: the business of that night remains between us. Draco is no part of it. I understand why you did not act. While I breathe, no harm will come to your son within these walls — provided the Dark Lord stays outside them.
He sanded the ink, folded the parchments precisely, and sealed them with the Dreyse crest — silver serpent biting its tail.
One by one, the owls perched on the sill extended their legs, waiting. Crix hovered nearby, eyes damp and proud.
"Sending them all, then?" the elf asked softly.
"Yes," Alden said. "Before I change my mind."
As the owls vanished into the pale sky, he sat back, gaze returning to the sunlight spilling across the dust-covered desk. The air shimmered faintly with motes — like tiny stars caught in slow motion. He reached out absently, tracing a circle through them with one finger.
For the first time in weeks, he smiled — small, quiet, and real.
"Stillness," he murmured, to no one in particular, "isn't silence. It's listening."
And in the hush that followed, even the manor seemed to hold its breath.