The greenish light of morning filtered through the lake above, turning the Slytherin common room into a chamber of shadowed glass. Pale ripples moved across the ceiling, like ghosts drifting overhead. A low fire smouldered in the grate, throwing amber light across the silver serpent carvings that wound up the stone pillars.
Alden was already awake. He sat on one of the long-backed chairs near the fire, uniform pressed, wand holster hidden beneath his sleeve, a book open on his knee though his eyes hadn't moved across the page for some time. Theo shuffled down the dormitory stairs behind him, hair a mess, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. Draco followed—immaculate even before sunrise—fixing his prefect badge in the reflection of one of the blackened windows. Blaise came last, expression mild as ever, hands in his pockets, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who rarely worried about anything that didn't directly affect him.
Then the door at the far end of the room opened with a quiet whoosh of displaced air. The cold swept in first, and then Severus Snape.
"Good morning," he said, in the kind of tone that suggested it would be wise not to test whether it truly was. His black robes caught what little light there was and carried it away with them. "I assume you are all aware of the concept of punctuality? Excellent—let us not lose that promising start."
He strode toward them, each step measured, and produced a small stack of parchment slips bound with silver twine. "Your timetables." The word dropped like a blade. He handed them out one by one, his eyes flicking over each student as though he were silently assessing their likelihood of surviving the term.
Alden took his without a word. The parchment was fresh, the ink a deep green that shimmered faintly under the enchanted torches. His eyes moved over the lines.
"Double Potions with Gryffindor first thing today," Draco read aloud, already grimacing. "Of course. Because who doesn't love spending a morning with Potter and his little entourage?"
Theo snorted. "Brilliant way to start the week—either we blow them up, or they blow us up."
Blaise leaned against the mantel, scanning his own parchment with a detached sigh. "Divination after, then double Defence with Gryffindor again. Someone at the Ministry clearly enjoys poetic suffering."
"Enough commentary," Snape said smoothly, cutting across the chatter. "You will find that complaining does not alter the schedule. Nor does it improve your aptitude."
Draco muttered something inaudible and looked down at the timetable again. "At least we have Transfiguration with Ravenclaw on Wednesdays. That's tolerable. I can actually stand the Ravenclaws."
"Theo can't," Blaise said, smirking. "He's still traumatised after their prefect beat him at chess last year."
"That was luck," Theo shot back. "And I'd hardly call losing to a Ravenclaw trauma."
Alden half-smiled into his parchment but said nothing. Snape's voice broke in again before the boys could begin a full debate.
"You will note," he said, his tone slicing through the low laughter, "that Fridays have been left free. Do not mistake that for leisure. It is intended for study—" his gaze landed squarely on Draco, who promptly straightened "—and preparation. Your O.W.L.s are no longer a distant concern. This year, gentlemen, they become the wall between those who continue in higher study and those who… do not."
A quiet hung in the air. Even Theo stopped fidgeting.
"Each of you will be expected," Snape continued, "to maintain grades appropriate to your House's reputation. And," he added, eyes narrowing, "to refrain from conduct that gives the impression Slytherin is a refuge for mediocrity. I will not tolerate sloppiness. Nor will I permit—" his tone sharpened—"arrogance. If you cannot manage both discretion and diligence, you will quickly find yourselves… reprioritised."
"Yes, sir," the boys chorused, though only half in unison.
Snape's dark eyes swept the room one final time before turning. "Breakfast, then your first lesson. Do not be late."
As he reached the archway, he paused. "Oh—and, Mr. Malfoy," he said without looking back. "Friday afternoons are for study, not self-congratulation. That badge does not make you infallible."
Draco's mouth opened, then shut again. "Yes, sir," he muttered, colour rising faintly in his cheeks.
The door closed behind Snape, leaving a faint chill in his wake.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The common room seemed to exhale, the tension easing slightly.
Theo flopped onto the couch. "Well," he said, "there goes the illusion that fifth year might be easier."
Blaise folded his timetable and tucked it neatly into his pocket. "Easier?" he drawled. "It's Hogwarts under a Ministry spy, Theo. I'd say we're lucky to still have desks."
Draco glanced over at Alden, who was rolling up his schedule. "You heard him—Friday's for studying. You'll make us all look bad if you keep getting top marks in everything."
Alden's faint smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then you'd better catch up."
Daphne and Tracey appeared at the girls' staircase just then, cloaks fastened, hair gleaming in the low light. Daphne's eyes went straight to Alden's, a silent exchange that needed no words. Tracey yawned. "Are we heading to breakfast, or waiting for the apocalypse?"
"Both," Theo said, standing. "Apparently, they're on the same timetable."
Their laughter trailed with them as they filed out toward the Great Hall, shoes tapping softly against the cold stone. Behind them, the lake light rippled and shifted across the walls, faintly green and endlessly deep—like the year waiting above.
The stone corridors of the dungeons were cool and dim, the sound of footsteps echoing in soft rhythm as the Slytherins made their way toward breakfast. The morning air that drifted from above carried the faint scent of toast and pumpkin juice; a promise of warmth waiting in the Great Hall.
Theo and Blaise were quietly debating whether Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs were worse company for Potions, while Draco adjusted his prefect badge for the third time. Alden walked at the back of the group, his stride unhurried, his thoughts elsewhere—on the woman in pink, the crowd's silence, the weight of so many watching eyes.
They had just reached the end of the corridor when Snape's voice slid through the air like the whisper of a knife.
"Dreyse. Stay."
The others halted.
Draco hesitated, half-turning back. "Professor—"
"Go," Snape said, in that smooth, low tone that left no room for argument. His black eyes flicked toward them, and even Draco knew better than to disobey. The group vanished up the stairs with barely a murmur, their footfalls retreating into the higher halls.
The corridor fell silent. Only the torchlight moved, flickering over stone and shadow. Snape stood a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, his gaze fixed on Alden as if dissecting him.
Alden's voice was quiet. "Sir?"
Snape didn't answer at once. He watched the boy for several long seconds—the pale hair, the tired eyes that had seen too much for fifteen. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through stone.
"Yesterday," he said. "You were about to draw your wand."
Alden's face was unreadable. "I don't know what you mean, sir."
The silence that followed was glacial. Snape's lip curled, ever so slightly. "Do not waste my time with deflections, Dreyse. I have spent too many years reading lies to mistake one now. You reached for your wand when Dolores Umbridge spoke—and it was not to applaud her."
Alden's eyes flickered, but he said nothing.
Snape stepped closer, his robes brushing the floor like shadows given weight. "You think I did not notice? The entire staff table noticed. Dumbledore noticed. Every Ministry eye in that room noticed." His voice dropped lower still, almost a growl. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if you had acted?"
"I didn't," Alden said softly.
"You almost did," Snape snapped. His patience broke like glass. "You would have proved every word she said! Every whisper, every headline. They already see you as a weapon half-forgotten and waiting to be used. You cannot afford—" He cut himself off, forcing his voice back into a cold, controlled thread. "You cannot afford to be reckless. Not now. Not when the Dark Lord has returned."
Alden's eyes flicked up. There was no disbelief there, only the quiet resignation of someone who knew. "So you believe it too."
Snape's jaw tightened. "I have seen enough to know that belief is irrelevant. He is back. And that makes you—" He stopped, searching for the word. "A liability to both sides. You stood against him, Dreyse. You survived. Do you understand what that means?"
Alden said nothing.
"It means," Snape continued, "you are a mark. The Dark Lord will want to finish what he started. The Ministry will want to disprove it ever happened. And the school—" his mouth thinned "—will feed on the fear of both. There will be students—brave, foolish ones—who will think that attacking you will win them glory. They will call it courage. You will call it restraint."
Alden's silence stretched.
Snape moved closer still until his shadow cut across the boy's face. "So when I ask what you were about to do last night, I ask because your life—and mine—depend on your answer."
Alden exhaled, eyes lowered. "I was going to curse her."
Snape's expression barely changed, but his eyes flashed. "Moron," he hissed, the word soft and deadly. "You would curse a Ministry official, in front of the school, in front of witnesses? You would confirm every accusation the Prophet prints about you?"
"She provoked me," Alden said quietly.
"She was meant to," Snape bit out. "That is her purpose. She does not teach. She investigates. Every word that leaves her mouth is a trap for someone too proud to stay silent. And you—" he jabbed a finger toward Alden's chest "—are exactly the sort of target she was sent for."
The air between them stilled. The torches hissed faintly.
"Listen to me, Dreyse," Snape said at last, softer now but no less severe. "You must be cleverer than this. Dolores Umbridge is not Barty Crouch. She is not a delusional fanatic playing professor. She is the Ministry. She answers to Cornelius Fudge himself. You raise your wand at her, you don't duel—you declare war."
Alden's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "I am not finished."
The words were cold as iron.
"You will not speak to her unless spoken to. You will not offer opinions on spells, politics, or philosophies. You will not utter the words intent, " " balance or inversion in her presence. You will keep your head down, your wand sheathed, and your temper buried. Do you understand?"
Alden met his gaze, calm but pale. "Yes, sir."
Snape studied him for a long moment. His expression eased, fractionally. "I do not say this out of pity," he murmured, voice lower now, almost human. "I say it because the world has decided what you are, and it will not easily be convinced otherwise. I am… sorry, Dreyse. For how things are. But sorry, will not keep you alive."
Alden's throat felt tight. "So I'm to stay silent, then."
Snape's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "For once, yes. Silence may be the only clever answer left to you."
He turned slightly, his robes whispering over the flagstones. "One more thing," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Barty Crouch, under Veritaserum last year—before the Dementors took him—told Dumbledore and me that he wanted you in the graveyard. Voldemort wanted you there. He said it was because you spent the entire year antagonising him."
Alden frowned. "Antagonising—?"
Snape's eyes met his, dark and unflinching. "Your speeches. Your theories. Your insistence that there is no difference between light and dark—only intent. You made the Dark Lord curious. And curiosity in him is never harmless."
The boy went very still.
"Do you understand me now?" Snape asked quietly. "This—" he gestured vaguely to the air between them, the Ministry, the whispers, the world "—this is the price of being seen. So, you will keep your brilliance to yourself. You will study. You will pass your O.W.L.s. You will stay alive."
Alden nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Snape gave a curt nod in return. "Good. Go to breakfast before someone notices you missing. I would rather not explain to the Headmaster why one of his champions looks half-starved before the first lesson."
Alden turned to leave, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.
Just as he reached the stairs, Snape's voice followed, softer, almost an afterthought. "And Dreyse—"
He looked back.
"Do not mistake control for weakness."
Their eyes met for a fleeting second before Alden nodded and disappeared up the stairs toward the light.
The Great Hall was already alive with the low hum of morning chatter when Alden stepped through the doors.
The grey sky above the enchanted ceiling looked heavy with rain, streaks of pale light glinting through drifting clouds. Candles floated lazily in the air, their flames reflected in the polished plates and golden goblets that stretched the length of the tables. The smell of toast, fried sausages, and fresh coffee hung thick in the air — but as Alden entered, it all seemed to dull.
Conversation stilled. Heads turned.
The ripple spread like the wind catching long grass. Whispers hissed between benches, soft and sharp.
"That's him—""—Dreyse—""—they say the Ministry's watching—""—survived You-Know-Who—""—Dumbledore's pet, that's what he is—"
Alden didn't look at them. He kept walking, the sound of his boots clipped and even against the stone floor. His silver crest caught the morning light — the serpent gleaming briefly before vanishing into shadow as he passed beneath the torches.
The Slytherin table, usually boisterous at breakfast, fell quiet as he approached. Draco shifted slightly to make room, eyes flicking between Alden and the rest of the hall with a mixture of irritation and pride, as if daring anyone to speak louder. Blaise gave a short nod of greeting; Theo muttered, "They'll tire themselves out eventually." Daphne, across from him, simply met Alden's eyes — a calm, measured glance that said more than words. Tracey sat beside her, twisting her hair idly, but her jaw was set.
Alden slid onto the bench, careful, deliberate. He reached for the coffeepot as if the world weren't staring at him, poured himself a cup, and took a sip.
The air shifted again — this time above.
A flurry of wings descended from the vaulted ceiling. Dozens of owls swept through the Great Hall, feathers brushing over heads and shoulders, parchment rustling in their beaks. One, a large tawny, broke from the stream and glided down toward the Slytherin table, dropping a folded Daily Prophet directly beside Alden's plate before soaring away again.
The moment it hit the table, the group leaned in — curiosity mixed with unease.
The headline sprawled across the front page in bold, shimmering letters:
LINEAGE INTEGRITY COMMISSION EXPANDS INVESTIGATIONS
Ministry Ensures Safety and Purity of Magical Heritage
Underneath, smaller lines curled like hooks:
"Recent assessments of ancestral estates across Europe have revealed bloodlines of questionable alignment," the article read. "Sources confirm that several families trace their heritage to individuals with links to the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald — including certain descendants currently enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Ministry remains vigilant to ensure the next generation of wizards grows free of dangerous influence."
And below that, almost as an afterthought — almost:
One such family, the Dreyse line, long dormant in continental records, has recently drawn attention for its unusual magical signatures and rumored connection to dark inheritance. While the Commission has yet to verify these claims, sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirm ongoing observation.
Theo let out a quiet curse under his breath. "Merlin's bones…"
Draco leaned forward, frowning. "They're not even pretending anymore. It's like they're begging people to go after you."
"They've already done worse," Blaise said smoothly, cutting his toast with surgical precision. "They raided half of Wiltshire last month, remember? I heard they tried to trace the Malfoy vaults for 'irregularities.'"
"Not mine," Draco snapped, more defensive than he meant to. "Father had everything cleared through the Department ages ago. Perfectly legal."
Daphne's voice was cool. "So was half the Ministry until they decided otherwise."
Alden didn't speak. He turned the page instead, eyes scanning the text. There were photos — one of Umbridge smiling primly beside a flustered Ministry official, another of Fudge shaking hands with a pale, nervous-looking family under the headline 'Ministry Protects Our Future.'
The words tasted bitter, but he didn't let it show. Snape's voice lingered in his head — You cannot afford to be reckless. Not now.
He folded the newspaper in silence and set it aside.
Daphne watched him. "You're quiet."
"Trying something new," he said, tone light but edged.
Theo gave a short, humorless laugh. "You? Quiet? The Ministry must really be working miracles."
Draco snorted, though his eyes darted toward the staff table. "Bet Umbridge is loving this. You can almost see the pink smirk from here."
Alden didn't glance up. "Let her."
The words were low, even, and that, more than anger, silenced the table.
A minute passed. The Great Hall began to hum again as the first-year chatter returned, as though the moment had passed — though Alden could still feel eyes watching from across the room. Gryffindors. Ravenclaws. A few Hufflepuffs whispering behind their pumpkin juice.
Theo nudged him. "You know they're going to start soon, right? Questions, rumors, bets on how long before you hex someone."
Alden reached for his cup, fingers steady. "Then they'll lose their money."
Daphne's gaze softened, just slightly. "Snape talked to you."
He didn't answer, but that was enough of one.
The rest of breakfast unfolded in uneasy quiet. Parchment rustled, spoons clinked, conversations ebbed and returned in waves — but around the Slytherin table, a strange pocket of calm held. Alden ate without hurry, movements precise, each one deliberate — control, made visible.
When the bell finally rang, he rose smoothly, collecting his bag.
Theo groaned. "Double Potions with Gryffindor. What a way to start the day."
"Be thankful it's not double Divination," Blaise murmured, draining his cup.
Alden's eyes flicked briefly toward the staff table — to Dumbledore, unmoving, and Umbridge, her smile as fixed as porcelain.
Then he turned, cloak brushing the floor, and walked toward the dungeon stairs without a word.
The whispering started up again the moment he passed.
The dungeon smelled of damp stone, smoke, and sharp herbs — a scent that clung to the air like memory. The torches burned low along the walls, their flames flickering in thin, serpentine tongues. Rows of cauldrons were already set out on the long black tables, steam ghosting faintly from their rims.
Slytherins took their usual side — polished, composed, the faint gleam of green silk visible beneath their robes. Across from them, the Gryffindors shuffled into place, half-grumbling, half-glaring, already bristling for the morning's silent feud.
Alden took his seat between Theo and Daphne, unrolling his sleeves just so, ensuring the cuffs covered his wrists. The fabric brushed faintly against old scar tissue, pale beneath the cotton, and he tugged the edge a little tighter before setting out his knife and ingredients.
The door at the front of the classroom slammed shut with a deep, echoing boom.
"Settle down," came Snape's low voice, a hiss of authority that carried over every whisper. He swept into the room like a shadow caught in motion — robes whispering against the flagstones, black eyes already scanning the tables.
"Today," he began, tone soft but cutting, "we begin work at a level befitting your year. Those of you who aspire to continue Potions to N.E.W.T. level — and I assure you, that is not many — will treat this classroom with the discipline it demands. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, and you will wish you had paid attention."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the Gryffindor side — Ron stiffened, Seamus smirked — before landing on the Slytherins. "We will be brewing a Draught of Clarity. The instructions are on the board. Begin."
The scrape of knives filled the room.
Alden worked with quiet precision — ingredients laid out in symmetrical order, knife gliding through moonwort with steady rhythm. His motions were economical, unhurried. Every action had weight. Theo leaned slightly closer, muttering under his breath.
"You're cutting it too fine," he warned.
"No," Alden said simply. "I'm not."
Sure enough, when he added the powdered valerian, the potion shifted — not to the cloudy gray of most cauldrons around them, but a deep, lucid blue. Snape's gaze drifted their way, lingered briefly on Alden's potion, and moved on without a word. For Snape, that was praise.
Across the room, Seamus's voice carried low but clear enough to be heard. "Figures Grindelwald's heir would have it perfect. Probably poisons people for practice."
The words hung in the air.
A few Gryffindors snickered; Ron shot Seamus a look that said not now, but it was too late — Snape turned sharply, robes flaring.
"Mr. Finnigan," he said in a voice like drawn steel. "I suggest you attend to your cauldron rather than running your mouth. Unless, of course, you enjoy the smell of singed eyebrows."
Seamus blinked — too slow. A loud pop erupted from his cauldron, followed by a hiss of purple smoke that smelled alarmingly like burning sugar. The Gryffindors gagged.
Snape's lip curled in faint amusement. "Ten points from Gryffindor. For idiocy."
Theo leaned toward Alden, voice low. "You didn't even have to hex him. I think Snape enjoys doing it for you."
Alden's mouth twitched. "He doesn't enjoy anything."
"Not true," Daphne murmured without looking up from her mortar. "He enjoys being right."
Theo snorted softly.
The noise of the dungeon rose — hissing cauldrons, whispered insults, the occasional clatter of dropped glass. Alden added the final strand of kelp, stirring clockwise until the blue deepened to the exact shade the textbook described as "mirror-water clarity." It glowed faintly in the low light, beautiful in a quiet, dangerous way.
Daphne leaned closer, keeping her voice low. "Snape talked to you this morning, didn't he?"
Alden didn't look up. "He did."
Theo tilted his head. "About Umbridge?"
Alden gave a small nod, adding, "He said the Ministry's waiting for an inch to take a mile. That I'm to keep my head down. Agree with whatever she says. Someone will try something soon — I'm to let them."
Theo's expression soured. "Let them?"
"His words," Alden murmured, still stirring. "If I react, I'll prove every word she's saying."
Daphne frowned. "And if you don't?"
"Then they'll get bolder," Theo muttered darkly. "People like her only understand power."
Alden's eyes flicked briefly toward him, something unreadable behind them. "Maybe. But for now, I'm meant to play the quiet student. That's the lesson."
Daphne crushed her herbs a little harder than necessary. "It's a poor lesson."
Theo smirked faintly. "Don't tell Snape that."
By the time Snape made his slow circuit of the room, most Gryffindors had reduced their cauldrons to either boiling tar or frothy chaos. He paused behind Neville, who was trembling slightly over a mess that looked like melted porridge.
"Charming," Snape said coldly. "Tell me, Longbottom, is there any particular reason you've chosen to recreate the contents of a troll's stomach?"
"I—I added the valerian too early, sir—"
"Ten points from Gryffindor for contaminating the air."
Snape swept past, pausing behind Alden's table. The Draught of Clarity shimmered in perfect equilibrium, smooth as glass. He said nothing, merely inclined his head an inch — a gesture more potent than applause — and moved on.
Theo whispered, "That's as close to pride as he gets."
"Careful," Daphne said. "He'll take points for that too."
When the bell finally rang, Snape dismissed them with a sharp gesture. "Bottles on my desk. Labels legible, or don't bother submitting. Clean up your stations — I will know if you don't."
The Gryffindors fled first, muttering curses under their breath. Slytherins lingered, methodical, their motions precise even in tidying up.
Theo glanced at Alden as they packed away their vials. "You know, for someone meant to keep his head down, you make it look awfully easy to notice you."
Alden sealed his bottle, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. "That's the problem with silence," he said softly. "It makes everyone else listen harder."
He set the vial on Snape's desk, turned, and walked out into the corridor — the whispers from behind following him like a shadow he'd long since stopped trying to outrun.
The Divination tower was as stifling as ever — thick with perfumed smoke and the scent of old incense that clung to the back of the throat. Curtains of faded velvet hung low from the rafters, turning the sunlight into a syrupy red haze. Tables were arranged in crooked circles, covered in teacups, tarnished crystal balls, and fraying lace cloths that had seen far too many ill-fated futures.
Alden ducked slightly as he stepped through the beaded doorway, followed by Theo, Daphne, and a few scattered Slytherins and Ravenclaws. The air shimmered with heat from the hearths that blazed despite the late-summer morning.
Professor Trelawney stood near the center of the room, her shawls trailing behind her like a patchwork fog. Her eyes — magnified to the size of galleons by her enormous glasses — blinked owlishly as the students settled.
"Ah," she breathed, clasping her hands as though greeting ghosts. "Our first gathering of the term. The air is… thick with foreboding, is it not?"
Theo muttered under his breath, "That or incense poisoning."
Daphne elbowed him lightly.
Trelawney glided between the tables, bracelets chiming faintly. "Today," she declared, "we shall open our Inner Eye to the whispers of destiny — to glimpse, perhaps, what lies entwined between past and future." Her gaze drifted vaguely over the room before snapping, with startling precision, toward Alden.
"Ah," she breathed again, this time with genuine fascination. "And so he returns."
Half the class turned instantly. Alden froze mid-step, feeling every eye burn through the haze toward him.
"The one whose shadow touches both the dawn and the dusk," Trelawney murmured, her voice quivering in that trembling whisper of prophecy she so loved to fake. "Whose blood hums with memory — whose path is not yet written, yet whose throne already waits."
Theo blinked. "Did she just say throne?"
"Yes," Alden muttered, voice low. "Yes, she did."
Trelawney's glassy eyes widened even further. "Two serpents coil," she continued, swaying slightly as though in a trance. "Past and future entwined — the crowned and the fallen, each mirrored in the other! Ah! Thrones built upon loneliness, kingdoms born in shadow!"
Someone near the back snickered, but most of the students were spellbound, leaning forward in the incense haze. Even the Ravenclaws looked intrigued — though they'd deny it later.
Daphne pinched the bridge of her nose. "Merlin's sake," she whispered. "It's not even lunch."
Trelawney's voice trembled higher. "Beware the crown of echoes, young one," she intoned, staring directly at Alden now. "For the Dark Lord of yesterday and the one yet to come shall meet again beneath broken stars!"
There was a gasp — someone dropped a teacup. It shattered on the floor.
Theo turned toward Alden with mock solemnity. "Congratulations," he whispered. "You've been upgraded from 'next Dark Lord' to 'Dark Lord with a sequel.'"
Alden didn't answer. He just pressed his palm to his forehead and, with a quiet thud, let it fall forward against the table. The sound made a few students jump.
"It's the first day," he muttered into the woods. "It's not even lunch."
Across the room, Parvati and Lavender were already whispering furiously, their quills scratching at parchment as though documenting the world's next prophecy.
Trelawney, apparently oblivious to the effect she'd caused, sighed dreamily. "Ah… such potent omens. I must consult the stars tonight — the patterns are shifting, and they speak his name…"
"Of course they do," Theo said dryly. "Half the school does."
The bell rang mercifully soon after. Chairs scraped, whispers swelled, and the scent of burning sage seemed to cling tighter as they filed out. By the time Alden stepped into the stairwell's cool air, he could already hear it spreading below — the hissing undercurrent of rumor racing down from the tower faster than any owl.
"Did you hear? She prophesied about Dreyse again—""—something about thrones—""—two Dark Lords—"
Theo gave a low whistle as they descended the spiral steps. "You know, you could make a fortune betting on how long it takes her nonsense to make the front page."
Daphne glanced sideways at Alden, who hadn't said a word since they left the tower. "You're not going to say anything?"
He gave a small, weary smile. "What's the point? Let them talk. They were going to anyway."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Still," she murmured, "she's giving them poetry to use now."
"Better that than truth," Alden said quietly, eyes on the staircase spiraling down into shadow.
And with that, he descended — the whispers following close behind, winding down through the school like smoke.
The climb down from the Divination Tower was steep and winding, the scent of incense still clinging to their robes like smoke. By the time the group reached the second floor, Theo looked ready to throw his dream journal out a window.
"I'm not writing down a month's worth of nonsense," he muttered, adjusting his bag higher on his shoulder. "If she thinks I'm going to keep a 'dream diary,' she's as mad as her tea leaves."
"You'll have to," Daphne said lightly, though there was little sympathy in her voice. "O.W.L. year. Everything counts."
Theo groaned. "I didn't think they meant everything."
Draco, striding a pace ahead, tossed his pale hair back with dramatic irritation. "It's ridiculous. A foot and a half on giant wars, another on moonstones, and now an essay on dreams. At this rate, I'll be asleep by Christmas just from exhaustion."
"Then you'll have something to write about," Tracey said sweetly, earning a snicker from Theo.
Draco ignored her, turning instead toward Alden as they joined the tide of students heading toward the Great Hall corridor. "I'll see if Father can send a few extra galleons. There's bound to be some desperate Hufflepuff willing to write for hire. The Ministry might be trying to starve me with parchment, but I refuse to spend my nights writing about moonstones."
Theo smirked. "Yes, why work when you can outsource your education? I'm sure that'll go well with the professors."
Draco gave him a look of disdain. "Please. Professors care about results, not effort. If Snape marks me based on effort, we'd all fail."
That drew a dry laugh from Alden, quiet but genuine. "You're not wrong," he said, the sound edged with weariness. His head still ached faintly from Trelawney's earlier theatrics, the echo of her voice — 'two serpents coil' — threading through the back of his mind like a curse that refused to fade.
They turned down the long corridor leading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The faint pink glow of the walls — soft, saccharine, utterly out of place in the otherwise austere castle — met them halfway down the hall.
Daphne slowed beside him, noticing his silence. "You all right?" she asked quietly.
Alden gave a small shrug. "Fine. Just… tired."
Theo grinned. "Of prophecies or people?"
"Both," he murmured.
As they reached the classroom door, the murmur of other students ahead grew quieter — uncertain, uneasy. It was a strange sort of hush, the kind that clings to the air before a thunderstorm.
Draco frowned. "What in Merlin's name…?"
Then they stepped inside.
The room had changed overnight. Gone were the dark, faded Defense banners and dueling mannequins that had been there since Moody's tenure. Instead, lace curtains covered the windows, and the lamps glowed a soft rose-pink. On the walls hung framed kitten plates that mewed and pawed at each other behind glass.
At the front of the room, seated primly behind the teacher's desk, was Professor Umbridge. The same pink cardigan, the same little black velvet bow perched atop her curls. She looked up as they entered, her smile wide and utterly false.
"Good afternoon!" she trilled.
The class hesitated. A few students mumbled something resembling a greeting.
"Tut, tut," said Umbridge, her voice rising like syrup boiling over. "That won't do, now, will it? Let's try again, shall we? I should like you to reply properly — 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time, if you please. Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," the class echoed, some loudly, others half under their breath.
"There now," she said sweetly, eyes sweeping over the room. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."
Alden caught Theo's glance from across the aisle — disbelief mixed with faint dread.
"She's joking, right?" Theo whispered.
"No," Alden murmured, pulling his quill from his bag, "she's the joke."
Draco smirked but said nothing, already slouching into his seat. The pink light from the curtains cast everyone in an odd, soft glow — as though the entire room were part of a staged photograph, sterile and false.
Daphne leaned in close as Umbridge began rearranging papers at her desk with maddening precision. "You can feel it, can't you?" she whispered.
Alden's jaw tightened. "The stillness?"
"The control."
He didn't answer — but his hand, resting against the desk, curled faintly into a fist.
Behind them, someone muttered, "How bad can she be?"
Alden's eyes flicked toward the front, where Umbridge straightened, smile unyielding, voice pitched just a little too high.
"We shall see," he said softly.
And as her sing-song tones filled the room, all sugar and poison, the thought echoed in his mind — Snape was right.
The real danger wasn't the Dark Lord lurking in shadow. It was the one smiling in pink.