The Great Hall was alive with the warm hum of dinner—voices overlapping, silverware clinking, owls fluttering near the rafters—and yet, the moment Alden Dreyse stepped through the doors, it all fell away.
Sound didn't so much stop as recoil. Conversations broke mid-sentence, laughter died like a candle snuffed in a draught. It wasn't silence—it was something worse: the collective tightening of breath, the rustle of heads turning, hundreds of eyes finding him at once.
He could feel the weight of them pressing down as he crossed the threshold, his footsteps echoing against the flagstones. The enchanted ceiling above mirrored the mood of the castle—grey, turbulent, restless.
A group of Hufflepuffs near the doors parted without being asked, one of them whispering far too loudly, "That's him—" before being silenced by a hissed shh! Alden didn't bother looking. He kept his eyes on the far end of the hall, where the Slytherin table gleamed under the candlelight.
It was a long walk. Too long. His robes brushed against the stone floor, dark and still faintly stiff from Madam Pomfrey's cleaning spells. He hadn't even changed since the infirmary. His skin felt tight along his neck and jaw, where dried healing charms had drawn thin, silver lines. Every flicker of torchlight seemed to catch on him, making the pallor of his hair gleam like frost.
As he passed the Ravenclaw table, someone muttered, "You'd think he'd be expelled by now."Another voice—older, uncertain—answered, "My mum says the Ministry's already reviewing his case."Then, from further down: "They say he tried to kill her—actually kill her—just yesterday."
The words slid over him, cold and familiar. He had heard them all before; only the names changed.
At the Slytherin table, Theo Nott was the first to notice him. "Merlin—he's alive," he muttered, elbowing Draco. "You owe me five galleons."
Draco, who'd been mid-sentence, froze halfway through his drink. His pale eyes flicked to the doors and widened. "Bloody hell," he said under his breath. "You look like you clawed your way out of a tomb."
Alden ignored the remark and approached, sliding onto the bench beside them. He didn't bother filling his plate. He just sat, the murmuring washing over him like the hum of an invisible hive.
"Evening," he said, voice quiet, even.
Theo, Tracey, and Daphne exchanged glances. Blaise leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "You shouldn't have come down. Half the school's talking about you. I've heard four different versions of what happened already—one says you hexed Umbridge so bad she had to be carried to the Hospital Wing."
Alden's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "If only."
Theo gave a snort of laughter before catching himself. "She deserved worse," he muttered.
Tracey looked uneasy. "Still—threatening a Ministry official?"
"Cursed by one first," Alden murmured. He reached for a goblet, his reflection trembling in the red surface of pumpkin juice. "Funny how that part never makes it into the stories."
Daphne's eyes lingered on him, searching his face. "You look awful," she said softly.
"Better than yesterday," he replied.
The table fell quiet for a few moments. Around them, the Great Hall slowly found its rhythm again, though every burst of laughter from another House seemed sharper, forced. Gryffindors were glancing over their shoulders; Hufflepuffs were pretending not to look. The whispers had not stopped—if anything, they had multiplied.
At the far end, Professor Umbridge's empty chair gleamed pink under the candlelight, like an unspoken reminder.
Theo prodded at his food, muttering, "You know, mate, there's brave, and then there's suicidal."
Alden gave a small, humourless laugh. "If you think that's brave, you've been spending too much time with Gryffindors."
Draco leaned forward, voice low. "So what did Snape say?"
Alden's gaze stayed fixed on his untouched plate. "That I'm a fool," he said simply.
Theo frowned. "He's not wrong."
That earned him a glare from Daphne. "You think he doesn't know that already?"
Theo shrugged. "I'm just saying, it's not exactly a secret."
"Drop it," Alden said quietly, not looking up. The tone wasn't angry—it was weary.
He could feel their eyes on him, even after they obeyed. He lifted his goblet again, forcing himself to take a sip. His hand didn't shake, but he could feel the tension crawling up his arm, the heaviness of exhaustion in his chest.
Above, the storm in the enchanted ceiling rolled and cracked with a distant rumble.
At the Gryffindor table, someone laughed loudly, forced, followed by a mutter that carried too far: "Enjoy your meal, Dark Lord Junior?"
Theo's fork hit the table with a clatter, but Alden didn't react. He stared down into the red shimmer of his drink, as if there were something there worth studying.
The laughter faded. The whispers began again.
Daphne's voice, very low, cut through it: "Ignore them."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He only set the goblet down and leaned back slightly, watching the candles float overhead.
He had thought the hardest part was fighting Voldemort. But sitting there, surrounded by hundreds of eyes that refused to see him as anything but a monster, they made the graveyard feel almost peaceful.
At the staff table, Professor Snape's gaze flicked briefly toward him, unreadable.
And Alden, without lifting his head, murmured under his breath—just loud enough for his friends to hear—"Feels like being hunted all over again."
Alden had barely taken his second sip of pumpkin juice when something small and crumpled drifted down beside his plate.
It wasn't an owl-delivered note—there was no flutter of wings, no rustle of parchment sealed in ribbon. This fell differently, like refuse. A scrap. A challenge.
Theo noticed it first. "What's that?"
Alden didn't answer. He simply unfolded the parchment, the edges greasy from whatever hand had handled it. Ink slashed across it in jagged lines, letters pressed deep into the fibers, as though carved by anger itself:
JUST YOU WAIT. NO ONE'S SCARED OF YOU.
A dull, sour silence dropped over their corner of the table. For a moment, only the clink of cutlery from the other end of the hall filled the space.
Then Draco breathed, "They're threatening you." His tone was strange—half disbelief, half awe.
Theo leaned closer, frowning. "They actually—Merlin, they actually did it."
Tracey's eyes were wide. "Who would even—"
But Blaise cut across her, voice flat. "Half the school's got a death wish, apparently."
Alden said nothing. He turned the parchment over once in his hand, studying the uneven scrawl as if he might recognize the handwriting. He didn't. It wasn't neat enough to belong to Ravenclaw. Too sharp for Hufflepuff. He set it down on his plate and stared at it until the letters blurred.
"They've forgotten," Theo muttered. "Completely forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" Tracey asked.
Theo gave a dark laugh. "Forgotten who he is. That's the same idiot who beheaded a Horntail last year. The one who went into the Black Lake and came out breathing as if he'd never left air. And they're threatening him?"
Daphne's voice cut through softly but coldly. "They're not forgetting, Theo. They're testing him. The whole school's waiting to see what he'll do next."
That made Alden finally look up. "And if I do nothing?" he asked.
She met his gaze, her blue eyes steady. "They'll keep pushing. Until you either break—or prove them right."
It was so quiet around them that even the dripping of the candle wax onto the tablecloth sounded loud.
Blaise gave a humorless chuckle, sitting back. "Well, they'd better pray he doesn't take the second option."
Alden's mouth twisted faintly at that, but it wasn't amusement. It was something smaller, bitterer. "I'm not giving them what they want," he said, folding the parchment and tucking it beneath his goblet, out of sight. "Let them talk."
Theo watched him carefully. "You're shaking."
Alden looked down at his hand—it was true. Not from fear, not really. From control. The restraint it took to not react burned hotter than anger ever could.
Draco shifted uneasily beside him. "You know, my father used to say that words can't hurt you," he muttered, then glanced up and caught the expression on Alden's face. "Though… he might be wrong about that."
"They can't," Alden said softly. "Not unless you let them."
The words should have sounded strong. But they didn't. They sounded tired. Worn at the edges.
From across the hall, laughter broke out again—too loud, too deliberate. Gryffindor table. Seamus Finnigan was leaning forward, whispering animatedly, and every so often glancing toward the Slytherins. Alden caught the direction of his eyes.
Theo followed his gaze. "Want me to hex him under the table?"
Alden shook his head. "Not worth it."
"But they—"
"Not worth it." The edge in his tone was quiet, but sharp enough to cut.
Theo subsided.
Alden reached for his drink again. Around him, the hall seemed to breathe differently—shallow, cautious, like the air itself didn't want to disturb the tension gathering around the end of the table.
Tracey, softer now, said, "You should've stayed in the infirmary another night."
"I'm not hiding," he said.
"No one's saying you should hide," Daphne murmured. "But sometimes even snakes need to rest before they strike."
For a moment, something flickered in Alden's eyes—amusement, maybe. Or the ghost of a smirk. "Strike?" he echoed.
Her lips curved faintly. "It's what they're afraid of."
He didn't reply. But the corner of his mouth twitched once before falling still again.
Above them, thunder rolled low in the enchanted ceiling. The candles trembled in their brackets, shadows sliding long across the tables. The laughter from Gryffindor dimmed into whispers again.
And as Alden sat there, surrounded by wary glances and loyal friends, he realized that Hogwarts itself had turned into a battlefield—only the weapons here were whispers, ink, and fear.
He just wasn't sure which of them would bleed first.
At the Gryffindor table, the tension hung like smoke. No one was laughing anymore—just the clatter of plates and low murmurs that carried like ripples through uneasy water. Harry had barely touched his shepherd's pie. His eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table, to where Alden Dreyse sat with that strange, measured stillness of his—one hand loosely around his goblet, the other resting near a folded bit of parchment no one dared mention aloud.
"He's back," Ron muttered, following Harry's gaze. "Didn't think he'd show his face after what happened with Umbridge."
Harry didn't look away. "Would you hide if the Ministry was after you?"
Ron hesitated. "Maybe. Depends on whether I'd threatened to kill a professor in front of half the school."
Hermione gave a sharp noise of disapproval, setting down her fork. "Oh, honestly, Ronald. He didn't threaten her—well, not exactly—she provoked him. Everyone saw it. She's been needling him since the moment she set foot in the castle."
Ron eyed her sideways. "Bit hard to defend him when he says things like 'you'd already be dead,' though, isn't it?"
"She cursed him first," Hermione snapped, voice low but fierce. "She used a spell to reopen old wounds—wounds from Voldemort, Ron. He could've bled out, and she would've smiled through it."
Harry's fork scraped against his plate. "They're doing it to him, too," he muttered.
Hermione turned toward him. "Doing what?"
"What they're doing to me," Harry said bitterly. "The Ministry, the Prophet—everyone. Pretending the truth's a lie because it's easier to hate someone else for saying it." He looked back at Alden, who was staring straight ahead, expression unreadable. "He nearly died last year fighting Voldemort, and this is how they repay him."
Across the table, Seamus Finnegan was laughing too loudly with Dean. The sound grated. Harry caught a few of the words—"Dark Lord," "act tough," "see if he tries that on a real wizard." His temper flared.
Hermione caught his sleeve. "Harry—don't."
But he was already standing, turning toward Seamus. "What's so funny?"
Seamus froze, eyes darting to Dean, who looked like he wanted to vanish. "Nothing. Just… saying someone finally told Dreyse how it is. Can't have him thinking we're all scared of him."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "You mean that threat someone sent him? You think that's clever?"
Seamus shrugged. "Someone had to say it. Everyone's been acting like he's untouchable since the Tournament. Well, now he knows he's not."
Ron leaned across the table, voice tight. "You really want to pick a fight with him, Seamus? The bloke who beheaded a Horntail and dueled You-Know-Who? Who turned a graveyard into a battlefield just to survive?"
A few nearby Gryffindors went silent, watching.
Seamus scoffed. "If he even did any of that. The Prophet says he—"
"The Prophet lies," Harry cut in sharply. His voice shook, not from fear but from anger. "I was there, Seamus. I saw Voldemort rise again. I saw what Alden did to protect both of us. You weren't. So maybe keep your mouth shut before you say something you can't take back."
The hall had gone strangely quiet again. Seamus's face went red; he looked away, muttering something into his food.
Hermione let out a breath, rubbing her temples. "Brilliant, Harry, now half the table's listening."
"Good," Harry said, sitting back down hard. "Let them. Maybe they'll think twice before they start throwing curses around like playground insults."
Ron gave a low whistle, glancing toward the Slytherins again. "Can't believe anyone's daft enough to threaten him. It's like they've forgotten who they're dealing with."
"They haven't," Hermione said quietly. "They just think if they push hard enough, they'll make him lose control—and then the Ministry can say they were right all along."
Harry frowned. "And what happens when he does?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes found Alden again—his stillness, his silence, the calm that felt too careful to be natural. "Then," she said softly, "we'll all wish we'd stopped it before it got that far."
Ron glanced toward the Slytherin table one last time, where Alden sat surrounded by flickering candlelight and wary glances. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "If I were Seamus, I'd start sleeping with one eye open."
Harry didn't laugh. He only stared across the hall, a grim set to his jaw. "If the Ministry keeps this up," he said under his breath, "they won't need Voldemort to make another Dark Lord."
The Great Hall had thinned to its bones. Most of the candles had burned low, their golden wax pooling at the bases of their holders, and the enchanted ceiling above was almost pitch black now—stars faint and far away, the ghost of a storm still lingering in the clouds. Plates cleared themselves with lazy flicks, and benches groaned as the last clusters of students drifted toward the doors in pairs and trios, voices echoing faintly down the corridor.
Alden didn't move.
He sat where he had through the entire meal, half in shadow, hands clasped loosely before him. His plate was still half full, his goblet untouched. Across from him, Theo and Daphne lingered. Blaise had already gone, muttering something about not wanting to be caught out after curfew.
Daphne tilted her head toward him. "You've barely eaten," she said softly.
He gave a small shrug. "Not hungry."
Theo frowned. "You need to sleep. You look like death warmed over."
That earned him a faint smirk. "I've looked worse."
Theo didn't argue. He just sighed, gathering his bag. "Fine. But don't stay too long. Snape will have our heads if we're late again."
Alden didn't respond.
After a moment's hesitation, Daphne stood as well, smoothing her robes. "Try not to think too much," she said gently. "Just… let it settle for a bit."
He met her eyes briefly—there was a flicker of warmth there, gratitude maybe—but he only nodded. "Go on. I'll catch up."
She hesitated a heartbeat longer, then turned and followed Theo out, the echo of their footsteps fading down the marble corridor.
And then, he was alone.
The hall felt cavernous without the crowd—empty in a way that made the air seem too heavy. The long House banners hung motionless. The candlelight trembled faintly, catching in the silver of his hair, turning it pale gold for a heartbeat before letting it fall back to white.
Alden exhaled slowly and leaned back, eyes drifting toward the high windows where the last traces of twilight bled into night. His reflection wavered faintly in the glass, doubled and distorted by the flicker of firelight.
You are not as alone as you feel. Dumbledore's voice echoed softly in his head, a memory from only hours ago—warm, patient, and unbearably kind.
But sitting there, the silence pressing in on him from all sides, Alden wasn't sure he believed it.
The whispers hadn't stopped. Even now, with the hall nearly empty, he could still hear them faintly from the far end—students who had stayed behind just long enough to watch him.
"Did you see him tonight?" someone whispered."Smiling like he didn't curse a professor yesterday.""I heard the Ministry's going to bring the L.I.A. after him.""They'll have to—Grindelwald's blood never dies."
The last one cut through everything else. It hung there, sharp as a blade.
Alden's eyes flicked toward the sound, though he couldn't see the speaker. He didn't need to. He'd heard it a hundred times before.
He sat very still for a long moment, staring down at his reflection in the goblet before him—the pale outline of his face, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. A boy's face, not a monster's. But it was hard to remember that, when everyone around him seemed determined to forget it.
He let out a quiet breath and whispered, so softly that only the candles might have heard, "But I am."
The words didn't sound like a confession. They sounded like understanding—like someone acknowledging the shape of a wound that would never quite close.
He rose slowly from the bench, the hem of his cloak brushing the flagstones. Around him, the few remaining candles wavered, their flames bending as if the room itself held its breath. He cast one last glance toward the empty staff table—Dumbledore's chair vacant, Umbridge's painfully pink seat glinting like mockery in the dark.
Then Alden turned toward the doors.
He walked with quiet, measured steps, his reflection following in the gleam of the floor. Behind him, whispers still carried—muffled, uncertain, but persistent—as though the castle itself were speaking about him in hushed tones.
When he reached the threshold, he paused for half a heartbeat, his hand resting on the cold brass of the handle.
This year, he realized, the whispers weren't going to fade. They were going to grow.
He pushed open the door, the heavy wood creaking softly, and stepped into the corridor beyond.
As the Great Hall doors swung shut behind him, the last of the candlelight caught in his hair—pale silver, bright as moonlight—and for a moment, it almost looked like he was leaving the light behind.
And in the quiet that followed, his words lingered faintly in the air—not threat, not lament, but quiet, bitter truth.
"…and this year's already proving the world needs fixing."