The world re-formed around them with a faint, elastic snap — air rushing inward, the taste of soot and morning rain mingling on Alden's tongue.
They stood in a narrow alley that emptied onto the bustle of King's Cross Station. The ground was slick with dew; puddles mirrored the overcast sky and the slow drag of passing clouds. A train whistle moaned somewhere beyond the brick wall, swallowed by the steady murmur of London traffic.
Alden exhaled and straightened his jacket — black wool, cut sharp at the shoulders and traced with the faint sheen of silver thread along the lapels. His hair, a short sweep of white, caught the dim light like frost, and his grey-green eyes adjusted quickly to the muted glare of the city. His trunk hovered obediently at his side, polished brass clasps winking through the drizzle.
Crix appeared less suited to the scene. The old house-elf hunched beneath the dripping eaves, eyes narrowing at the sight of rushing Muggles with briefcases and paper cups. His travelling cloak hung about him like a relic, and his long fingers twitched as though itching to hex the entire station into silence.
"Appalling place," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. "All noise and no magic. You'd think wizards had better sense than to hide gateways here."
"They hide them because it's noisy," Alden said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "No one hears what they're not listening for."
Crix gave a skeptical grunt. "Hmph. Clever words for a clever boy. Clever boys tend to get hexed before breakfast."
"Then I'll skip breakfast," Alden replied mildly.
He looked toward the open mouth of the alley where the station spread beyond — the tangle of crowds, the hiss of steam from some mundane train pulling out. A moment's pause, and his wand shifted slightly against the holster at his wrist, as if aware of the attention it would soon draw.
"Thank you for coming this far," Alden said quietly. "You should go before the Aurors get curious."
Crix bristled, ears flattening. "And leave you to them? Not a chance."
"Crix." Alden's tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it — not command, precisely, but certainty. "They won't do anything here. Too many witnesses. They'll only look, and they're free to look. It's all they know how to do."
The elf frowned, glancing toward the far end of the alley where two men in dull Ministry coats were pretending to argue over a newspaper. "Watching," he said darkly. "Always watching. They think old eyes like mine don't see."
"They think too much of themselves," Alden said, and a faint smile ghosted across his lips. "Don't let them spoil your day."
Crix shifted his weight, muttering about Ministry fools and their parchment courage. His gaze softened when it returned to Alden. "You've grown tall," he said, a little roughly. "Too tall to be walking into a place that's already decided what you are."
"Then it's a good thing I don't plan on asking what they think," Alden answered, reaching for the handle of his trunk.
Rain pattered gently between them. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Crix straightened, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head. "Crix will keep the manor breathing," he said, his tone formal again. "Hidden deep. West, as promised."
Alden gave a single nod. "Good."
Crix's gaze lingered — fierce, protective. "Be careful, young Master."
"I always am."
The elf snorted. "You always say that."
Alden's smile returned, quiet and knowing. "And it's always true."
Crix looked ready to argue, then stopped. The drizzle thickened, and for a heartbeat the alley blurred with mist. "Go on, then," he said. "Before I decide to curse every last Auror and drag you home myself."
Alden inclined his head in thanks, a gesture as old as the house that had raised him. "Take care of yourself, Crix."
The elf's eyes glimmered. "Old elves don't need care. We just need purpose."
"And you've always had plenty of that," Alden said.
He turned toward the station. Behind him, the faintest crack split the damp air, and when he looked back, the alley was empty. Only the mist remained, curling upward like smoke.
Alden adjusted his collar, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the noise of the city — a figure of calm precision moving through a tide of oblivious Muggles, his pale hair catching what little light the morning offered. Ahead lay the barrier between worlds, and beyond it, Hogwarts. The hum of magic stirred faintly at the edge of his senses.
He did not look back again.
The noise of King's Cross swallowed him whole.
Steam hissed from the rails, curling upward to meet the iron beams above, where pigeons perched like soot-grey ornaments. The air carried the scent of oil, coffee, and damp wool — a mixture uniquely mortal, utterly mundane. Alden walked through it as though the crowd parted for him. It didn't, not really, but there was something in his manner — that slow, measured stride, the precision of someone who had never once stumbled in public — that made people unconsciously step aside.
He wore black — all black — the cut of his suit clean and deliberate, its edges lined with faint silver thread that caught the overhead lights each time he passed beneath them. The top button of his shirt hung loose, revealing a trace of collarbone. His trunk glided silently behind him on a charm, floating a few inches off the ground, perfectly in rhythm with his movements.
No tie. No rush. No hesitation.
He was fifteen, but he didn't look it — not in the stillness of his face, nor the weight in his eyes. He looked like someone who already knew what people whispered and no longer cared to correct them.
The Muggles were loud and blind. A child dragged a squeaky toy along the tiles. A businessman cursed under his breath at a delayed train. The intercom crackled overhead, a voice distorted by static calling out destinations that meant nothing to the boy gliding past. Yet beneath it all — faint, invisible — Alden could feel the hum. The familiar thrum of hidden wards vibrating behind the bricks between Platforms Nine and Ten. Magic, patient and waiting.
He reached up, brushing a strand of white hair from his eyes, and that's when he felt it — the gaze. Two of them are sharp and weighty.
He didn't have to look to know who they belonged to.
Still, he did. Slowly, deliberately.
By the newsstand, half-shadowed beneath the green glow of a "Platform 8" sign, two men stood too stiffly to be ordinary. They held The Daily Prophet folded in their hands, though neither seemed to be reading. The closer, one wore his Ministry badge poorly concealed beneath his coat; the glint of polished brass gave him away. The other's eyes — narrow, cold — tracked Alden's every step.
Aurors.
Of course.
He met their eyes — just once, and that was enough.
Neither spoke. Neither moved. But Alden saw the moment one of them swallowed, throat tightening around some unspoken thought. The kind of fear that hid behind duty.
He kept walking.
The soft click of his shoes against the stone echoed faintly, too measured for the noise around him. His trunk drifted after him like a ghost. The hum of the barrier drew closer with each step, resonating against his wand — the wand Draco had given him last spring, now holstered against his forearm in a loop of polished leather. The wood warmed faintly through the fabric, alive with recognition, as though it, too, sensed where they were heading.
He passed a mirror pane along the wall — caught his reflection in the glass for half a second. A flash of pale hair. The cold, steady green-grey of his eyes. The black suit framed the kind of composure people mistook for arrogance.
Fear makes good ink, he thought absently, glancing back at the Aurors who still hadn't moved, but poor courage.
He turned away before either could react.
The crowd thickened near the gates — families, luggage, small children clinging to parents' sleeves. A red-faced guard whistled, waving for order. No one noticed when Alden slipped between Platforms Nine and Ten, brushing his hand lightly along the brick pillar. The barrier thrummed beneath his palm like a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes once, briefly — a silent breath, neither nervous nor nostalgic — and stepped forward.
The sound changed instantly.
The human chaos dissolved into the sweet, bright clangor of the wizarding world. Steam whistled higher and freer here, carrying the scent of parchment, owl feathers, and peppermint from the trolley stand. The Hogwarts Express gleamed crimson in the morning light, runes faintly shimmering along its polished sides.
Alden adjusted his cuffs again, expression unreadable, and took his first step onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
He did not look back.
The instant Alden crossed the barrier, the air changed — thicker somehow, rich with the hum of enchantments and the bright crackle of youth.
Steam from the great red engine rolled across the platform in slow, curling waves, veiling faces and lanterns alike. The whistle of the Hogwarts Express pierced the noise, sharp and jubilant, scattering a flock of owls that swooped above the crowd in a flurry of feathers and hoots. The smell of iron and coal mingled with the sweetness of treacle fudge from the trolley cart; parents called out last-minute reminders, children darted between trunks and cats, and a burst of laughter from somewhere near the front carriage carried over the din.
It was colour and warmth and noise — the pure, innocent sort of chaos that filled the last morning of summer before school began.
Alden slowed just long enough to take it all in. For a heartbeat, his face softened — a flicker of something faintly wistful. A memory, perhaps: simpler Septembers, when excitement was still allowed to feel untainted.
But then the whispers began.
They came like the rustle of parchment catching fire.
"Is that him—?""—the Grindelwald boy—""No, not Grindelwald—Dreyse, but they say he's—""—you mean the one who—?"
The words slipped through the steam, quiet but sharp, each one cutting through the warmth like sleet.
A mother pulled her young son a little closer as Alden passed. A cluster of older students turned away too quickly, their laughter faltering mid-breath. One boy, red-haired and freckled, whispered something under his breath, and his mother smacked his arm sharply — though even she couldn't quite meet Alden's eyes afterward.
Alden didn't flinch.
He walked through them all with the same slow precision, his black suit catching the light in small, deliberate flashes of silver. The top button of his shirt hung open, his collar brushing his throat; his short white hair gleamed faintly in the steam, and his eyes — that storm-grey-green — seemed to take in everything and nothing all at once.
He adjusted the strap of his trunk. That single, unhurried gesture said everything: that he'd heard them, that he didn't care, and that their words weren't enough to touch him.
A paper boy hurried past, selling the morning's Daily Prophet. The headline stretched in bold type across the top:
"The Lineage Commission Expands Inquiry — Sources Say Dreyse Family Under Review."
Alden's eyes lingered on it only a moment before looking away.
Someone near the engine muttered too loudly, "If they let him back into Hogwarts after all that—"And someone else hissed, "Shh! He'll hear you!"
He did, of course.
He always did.
But he kept walking, the faint hum of his wand against his wrist the only heartbeat he trusted.
As he moved down the platform, the steam parted in long white ribbons around him. The noise of families blurred to background static — laughter, scolding, farewells — while he walked through it all like a ghost from a different century.
At the far end of the platform, where the Slytherin students traditionally gathered, the crowd thinned, and the warmth of the morning seemed to fade with it. A patch of light from the hanging lamps caught on the silver trim of his suit as he passed beneath, making him, for an instant, look almost spectral — the kind of figure that belonged to legend, not school.
He reached the carriages and paused, resting one hand lightly on the trunk's handle. The faint reflection of the train's brass plates shimmered in his eyes — green and gold, warped by the rising steam.
A flicker of nostalgia passed through him again — but quieter this time. Short-lived.
"Home again," he murmured under his breath.
Then he stepped forward, unbothered by the silence his presence left in his wake.
Steam rolled in waves across the platform, curling between the carriages like ghostly breath. Through it, voices rose and fell — laughter, the shrill of whistles, the clatter of trunks being heaved aboard. And yet, as Alden moved past the fifth carriage, the noise seemed to dim, as if the air itself recognized something it ought to hush for.
He saw them then — the cluster of Order members standing near the scarlet engine, half lost in the haze of steam. A tableau of protection and exhaustion. Mr. Weasley's hand rested lightly on Harry's shoulder; Molly was fussing with Ginny's collar; Fred and George were arguing over something that glittered in one of their palms. Tonks' hair glowed faintly violet in the light. Moody stood at the edge of them all, broad and grim, his magical eye rolling constantly. Lupin spoke softly to Sirius — the dog's ears pricked, his tail twitching.
They looked alive. Warm. Human.
For a moment, Alden considered walking another way.
But no — avoidance only proved them right.
He kept to his course. His shoes made no sound on the platform, though the air around him seemed to tighten, the static whisper of magic brushing against skin like a shift in weather. The silver thread of his suit gleamed under the lamps, a flicker of brightness in all the steam.
It was Hermione who saw him first. Her laughter — light, unsure — died mid-breath. She touched Harry's arm, and when he followed her gaze, his face changed.
Alden didn't need Legilimency to know what was running through Potter's mind. The graveyard. The screaming. The green light and the smell of iron. He could almost hear the echo of that night — Harry's voice breaking as he tried to drag him back toward the cup, shouting, "He's coming! Alden, he's coming!"
Now Harry only stood there, frozen between memory and the moment, that peculiar mixture of pity and guilt clouding his expression.
Molly's eyes followed Harry's and landed on Alden. For half a heartbeat, she didn't seem to recognize him — too much had changed. His hair is shorter now, his face sharper, that old childish softness stripped away. Then she did remember, and her breath caught.
Her hands, still mid-fuss at Ginny's scarf, stilled. The lines around her mouth deepened — something like fear, or perhaps shame.
The last time she'd seen him, he knew, he'd been sprawled on the ground under Potter, blood pooling between the cobblestones, eyes half-open. Before that, she'd heard him threaten to erase her family from existence.
It wasn't a pleasant memory for either of them.
Arthur Weasley noticed next. His face tightened, a polite stiffness settling like armor. He didn't speak, but his hand moved protectively — unconsciously — toward Ron.
Ron's reaction was the opposite of silence. His jaw clenched, his glare immediate. There was history in it, raw and untended: words exchanged, insults thrown, and that one moment in the Great Hall when Alden had torn through the air like a storm and told the world the Dark Lord had returned. Ron had never forgiven him for the way fear followed after.
Alden met the glare without flinching. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't make it worse.
Hermione's face softened, a flicker of conflict in her eyes. She looked as if she wanted to say something — perhaps to greet him, perhaps to apologize for the way the world had turned him into a villain in her friend's story. But she didn't. Her hand fell away from Harry's arm. Silence held her, too.
Sirius shifted beside them, the massive black dog lowering its head slightly, ears flicking back. Recognition burned in that animal gaze — a kind of quiet respect, even sorrow. The dog huffed softly, tail sweeping once along the platform before stilling. Lupin's eyes followed his friend's gesture, and when he saw Alden, his expression changed — the faintest glint of admiration hidden beneath old caution.
Tonks, young and uncertain, didn't mask her curiosity. She stared, openly, almost rudely. The kind of look given to a ghost one has heard about but never believed in.
And Moody — always Moody — watched everything. His real eye squinted, his magical one whirring in a slow circle before fixing on Alden. A flicker of analysis, not judgment. The gaze of a man who catalogued threats and found this one contained — for now.
Alden walked past them, the hiss of steam curling around his ankles. He inclined his head once — a gesture of acknowledgment, neither deferential nor defiant. His eyes met Molly's for a heartbeat — no apology, no hatred, only a quiet, weary understanding.
Not a single word was spoken.
But the silence was thunderous.
Fred muttered first, his voice barely audible beneath the whistle of the train. "Blimey. Looks like he's walking to his own funeral."
Moody's answer came low and gravelly, almost approving. "No, lad. He's walking like he's already been to it."
A gust of steam cut between them, swallowing Alden's outline as he continued down the platform — just another black silhouette dissolving into the light and the noise of departure.
Behind him, the Order said nothing. But every one of them felt it: the weight of a boy the world had already decided to fear.
The steam thinned near the rear of the platform, drifting low over the wooden planks like smoke after a battle. The last carriages of the Hogwarts Express stood quieter than the rest — away from the bustle of families and laughter, the air here held something colder.
Alden's steps fell evenly against the boards, each one sharp and distinct in the muffled noise. His trunk followed behind him in its silent orbit, wand arm tucked loosely at his side. He could already see the door to the last carriage when a voice — smooth as polished marble — cut through the hiss of the engine.
"Mr. Dreyse."
He stopped.
Lucius Malfoy stood a few paces ahead, the morning light sliding across his pale hair and the serpent head of his cane. His posture was immaculate, his smile faint — the kind born not of warmth, but of habit. Behind him, Draco lingered, hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting between them with the nervous energy of someone who could already sense the frost in the air.
"Lord Malfoy," Alden said quietly, inclining his head just enough to be polite.
"Your summer has been… eventful, I imagine," Lucius replied, his tone perfectly civil but his eyes sharp — searching, assessing, weighing. "I had wondered whether we'd see you again this term, after so much unpleasant attention."
Alden's gaze didn't waver. "I tend to ignore unpleasant attention."
Lucius's lips curved, though the movement never reached his eyes. "An admirable skill. It seems the Ministry hasn't yet learned the same restraint."
"Or the same courage," Alden said softly.
That earned the smallest pause — just enough for the steam between them to fill the silence. Then Lucius's smile returned, brittle and gleaming. "You always did speak boldly for your age."
"I'm old enough to remember who was watching in the graveyard," Alden said, voice calm, conversational, though the air itself seemed to still around them. Draco glanced between them, frowning faintly, sensing something hidden he couldn't name.
Lucius's gloved hand tightened imperceptibly on the serpent cane. The polished green gem at its head caught the light and refracted it into a thin, cold gleam across Alden's cheek.
Draco broke first. "I'll—uh—go find a compartment. Make sure we get seats." His voice was a touch too quick, his composure stretched thin.
Alden's eyes flicked toward him, softening briefly. "Thank you, Draco."
Draco nodded once and hurried toward the train, vanishing into the steam. The silence that followed was heavier, the platform emptier around them now that the whistle had begun to shriek for departure.
Alden turned back to Lucius. He took one quiet step closer, enough that his words wouldn't carry beyond the two of them.
"I know what you did," he said, almost gently. "I don't care whether it was under orders or ambition, or simply fear. But you leaked it."
Lucius didn't move. His expression remained perfectly still, but the silence between them was admission enough. Alden's gaze sharpened — not angry, merely absolute.
"I want you to remember," he continued, voice dropping lower still, "that I am the only one, other than Dumbledore, who has ever struck him and lived. So if you think you can do the same to me, or survive trying…"
He let the sentence hang, unfinished, letting the weight of it fill the air like pressure before a storm.
Lucius's eyes flickered, something reptilian glinting there — not fear, exactly, but the awareness of a creature who suddenly knows its position on the food chain. He forced a smile, the practiced, polished curve of a man who had built his life on appearances.
"Have a good school year, Mr. Dreyse," he said softly.
"And you, Lord Malfoy," Alden replied.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Alden stepped past him, his shoulder brushing the faintest edge of Lucius's cloak as he ascended into the carriage. The old wizard's cane tapped once against the platform — too sharply, too deliberately — as though to fill the silence Alden left behind.
When the boy was gone, Lucius exhaled slowly, a measured, quiet breath. The silver head of the serpent cane gleamed faintly in his hand, reflecting nothing but steam.
And for the first time in years, Lucius Malfoy felt something that might have been unease.
The train lurched once, gears groaning as the great scarlet engine gathered strength. Steam pressed against the carriage windows, fogging them white. Inside, the corridors were alive with the noise of luggage slamming into racks, the flutter of owls, and the constant hum of students falling back into the rhythm of a new year.
Alden stepped inside.
The air shifted almost immediately. Conversations thinned, laughter dimmed, and the subtle creak of the floorboards seemed to echo more sharply beneath his boots. The black of his suit absorbed the lamplight; the faint silver trim along his sleeves caught it, glinting as he passed. His wand rested in its holster, the handle hidden beneath the cuff of his left wrist, but every pair of eyes he passed seemed to find it anyway.
The Slytherin carriages were quieter than the rest — always had been. They carried a kind of hushed refinement, the air heavy with perfume, parchment, and practiced civility. Yet today, as Alden walked the narrow corridor, that hush took on something colder. Watchful.
He could feel them before he saw them — the glances that lingered too long, the murmurs that didn't quite fade when he turned his head.
"—that's him—""—the one from the tournament—""—heard he nearly killed Potter—""—no, he saved him, that's the worst of it—""—look at his eyes, I'm telling you—"
He kept walking. Smooth. Unbothered.
The reflections in the carriage windows fractured his image again and again — the pale hair, the sharp cut of the jaw, the stillness in the way he moved. He looked like something out of place among them, not a student but a shadow passing through their small, polished world.
A pair of sixth-years straightened as he passed, half-bowing by reflex before realizing what they'd done. Another group fell silent entirely, pretending to read Advanced Potion-Making but failing to turn a single page.
One younger boy — a fourth-year by the badge on his robes — stared openly until Alden's eyes flicked toward him. The boy's face flushed crimson; he dropped his gaze so quickly it might have burned him.
Alden said nothing. The silence was its own defense, sharper than any rebuke.
The train jolted slightly as it began to move in earnest. The hum of magic beneath its wheels rose — steady, rhythmic, the pulse of home. Alden reached the end of the carriage and stopped at a familiar compartment.
Through the glass pane of the door, he saw Draco sitting alone. The boy's posture was stiff — not from arrogance, but tension. His pale hair was neat, his gaze turned toward the window, but his reflection betrayed him: a glance every few seconds toward the door, the faint crease between his brows.
Alden slid the door open with a soft click.
Draco looked up immediately. Relief flickered across his face, brief and genuine, before he masked it with a smirk. "Took you long enough," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hex my father instead of saying goodbye."
Alden's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one. "Tempting as that was, I thought I'd save it for the holidays."
Draco let out a short, nervous laugh that faded into something quieter. "He doesn't know when to stop talking," he muttered, almost to himself. "You should've heard him after the tournament—"
"I did," Alden interrupted gently. "Every word that mattered."
That earned him a longer silence. Then Draco nodded once, understanding without needing it spelled out.
Alden set his trunk down with a low thud and took the seat opposite him. The hum of the train filled the quiet between them, low and constant, like a heartbeat. Outside the window, the platform slid away, shrinking beneath clouds of smoke and sunlight.
Through the glass door, Alden caught the faintest reflection of himself — his eyes, pale and watchful, framed by the black of his suit. Behind that reflection, he could still feel the weight of all those stares from the other students, pressing in like a storm.
Draco spoke again, quieter this time. "They'll talk, you know. All year. They already are."
"They always do," Alden said simply. "Let them."
He leaned back against the seat, folding his hands in his lap, and watched the countryside roll into view — a blur of gold and green beyond the glass. The train's rhythm settled into something steady, almost soothing.
For the first time all summer, Alden let himself breathe.
The world would whisper. It always had. But he was going back to Hogwarts — to silence, to study, to the slow discipline of control. Whatever storm the Ministry stirred, whatever the students believed — none of it mattered now.
He would face it all in due time.
And as the train thundered northward, the faint reflection of his eyes in the glass gleamed silver-green — not with fear, but with quiet, unbreakable resolve.