The clock above King's Cross struck nine with a heavy, soot-soft chime that shivered through the concourse. Steam rolled along the rafters like the breath of some sleeping engine. Luggage clattered, owls protested from wicker cages, and voices tangled in a dozen accents—parents calling, children arguing, porters swearing under their breath.
Amid the noise, Alden Dreyse moved as if the air obeyed him.
He walked the way precision walks: coat buttons aligned, gloves smooth, every step set to an invisible metronome. The coat itself was black—not mourning black, but the clean, deliberate black of design—fitted through the waist, falling to the knee. Polished boots clicked once for every three heartbeats of the crowd. His hair, silver-white under the station lamps, caught flashes of brass and smoke like wire drawn through light.
A family of Muggles veered across his path, arguing over a map. The father's elbow brushed Alden's arm; the boy simply shifted, neither startled nor irritated. The movement was small enough that the man never noticed he'd been avoided.
A whistle screamed from a distant platform. The sound cut through the noise, scattering pigeons; they rose like ash in sunlight. Alden paused beneath the Departure Board, eyes flicking once across the columns of destinations—Paris, Edinburgh, Inverness—each time blinking in rhythm with the clock's second hand. To anyone watching, it might look like he was waiting for someone. In truth, he was synchronizing.
A woman near the newsstand whispered to her husband,
"That boy—look at the hair. That's a Dreyse, isn't it?"Can't be. They're all abroad now."Then he's a ghost."
Alden's gaze passed over them without acknowledgment. He'd learned long ago that curiosity was its own punishment.
He reached the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. The place was a perfect piece of engineering: unnoticed by those who weren't looking, inexplicable to those who were. He checked his pocket-watch—8:54 a.m., twenty-six seconds to spare—and slipped the chain back under his cuff.
Someone behind him—olan der student, deep voice—called out,
"Oi, careful with the owl cage!"
Alden glanced back once. Two trunks toppled toward a younger girl. He stepped forward, steadied the upper trunk with his left hand, and restored balance before it struck her. She mumbled thanks; he inclined his head, already walking away.
"Polite sort," the boy muttered after him. "Creepy polite."
He reached the barrier, adjusted his grip on the trolley handle, and exhaled through his nose—a steadying habit rather than nerves. One step, half-turn, lean forward—and the air folded.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence, warm and private, like the space between blinks. Then sound returned: the shrill of magical steam, chatter, bright banners flapping. He was through.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters opened before him—crowded, colorful, alive in a way the Muggle side never quite managed. The scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express stood colossal under a haze of gold smoke, its brass numbers gleaming like molten metal. Children ran, owls hooted, cats weaved through ankles. The smell of iron, parchment, and sugar twisted together into something purely Hogwarts.
Alden paused on the platform's edge, letting the scene map itself in his mind—the geometry of people, the intervals between whistles, the pattern of trunks. His eyes, pale green-grey, caught the reflection of the train windows and returned it sharper, colder.
Someone jostled him, muttering an apology. He inclined his head again, unbothered.
To most, the station was chaos. To Alden Dreyse, it was a rhythm waiting for someone precise enough to hear it.
He adjusted his collar, let the wind carry a stray lock of silver hair back into place, and stepped toward the carriages with the quiet certainty of someone who already knew exactly how the day would unfold.
The air on the platform shimmered with heat from the scarlet engine. Owls shrieked above the din, trunks rolled like artillery shells across the cobbles, and the smell—steam, oil, and a trace of treacle—hung heavy enough to taste. Children darted between families; robes flared; sparks from wand-tips lit brief constellations in the haze.
Alden moved through it untouched . Where others shouted over the whistle, his silence carved a path. He tilted his head once, tracking the way magic thickened in the air—like ozone before a storm. The noise barely grazed him. His gaze found the tail end of the train where the Slytherin carriages traditionally gathered, that slight pocket of order inside chaos.
A familiar drawl stopped him halfway down the platform.
"Dreyse!"
Draco Malfoy appeared from the smoke like a figure in a portrait come to life—hair immaculate, robes perfectly pressed, chin held just high enough to suggest breeding rather than arrogance. His father walked beside him, silver-topped cane tapping in a steady rhythm, each strike precise as punctuation.
Lucius Malfoy looked every inch of the rumors: pale, elegant, eyes as pale as coins behind polished composure. The serpent-head of his cane gleamed brighter than the lamps.
Draco's smile flickered genuinely for once.
"I was hoping we'd run into each other before departure. Father—this is Alden Dreyse."
Lucius's gaze turned. It was the kind of look that weighed rather than wandered, assessing lineage, manner, and purpose in a single glance. Alden inclined his head, the motion measured but unbowed.
"Mr Malfoy," he said evenly, offering a gloved hand. "A pleasure. I've had the fortune of sharing the House and schedule with your son."
Lucius accepted the handshake—light pressure, testing—before releasing it.
"Dreyse," he repeated, voice smooth as a blade being drawn. "Yes… The old continental family. How is your father doing?"
"He is well," Alden replied. "However, he would appreciate it if you stopped trying to invite him to Malfoy Manor."
Lucius's expression did not soften, yet something in the gaze shifted from curiosity to regard.
"Efficiency—yes. An undervalued virtue these days."He rested both hands on his cane. "Draco speaks highly of your discipline. A rare trait among boys your age."
Draco brightened; Alden's tone stayed even.
"He exaggerates. I simply prefer results to excuses."
Lucius's eyes narrowed, amused.
"Then you'll go far."
From the other end of the platform, a final whistle cut through conversation. Students began climbing aboard in a flurry of robes and good-byes. The Malfoy patriarch straightened his son's collar with a surgeon's precision.
"Remember, Draco—comportment matters as much as competence. The Tournament will draw eyes; represent us accordingly."
"Of course, Father."
Lucius's attention returned to Alden.
"Do see that he remembers that, Mr Dreyse. I find peers can accomplish what parents cannot."
Alden inclined his head once more.
"I'll remind him, should it slip."
Lucius's smile was all polished civility.
"Good. Then I leave my son in capable company."
He tapped the cane lightly against the platform, a quiet dismissal. As he turned away, the plume of his cloak caught a draft of steam and vanished into it.
Draco exhaled, half-laughing.
"He likes you. You realize that's rarer than a compliment."
"I'll treasure it accordingly," Alden said, dry. The corner of his mouth almost curved.
Another whistle. Students began shouting farewells through the smoke. A cat darted between their feet; sparks rose from a dropped firework. Alden adjusted the strap of his satchel and gestured toward the train.
"We should board. Slytherin section fills first."
They stepped forward together, the chaos parting around them—one walking in polish, the other in silence—and the platform behind them dissolved into the hiss of steam and the echo of names shouted through the smoke.
Steam hissed from the engine in thick ribbons, curling around boots and trunks like restless ghosts. The platform had begun to thin; families were pulling back, hands waving through the fog, farewells half-swallowed by the whistle's scream. Alden and Draco walked side by side, the noise folding away from them as if the air recognized something deliberate in their pace.
Draco was still grinning from his father's approval. His words tumbled faster than the wheels beginning to grind.
"Did you hear about the Irish Seeker? Father said he's still being questioned by the Department of Magical Games. Something about contraband brooms—well, not contraband exactly, but tuned past regulation. Typical. The Ministry pretends not to see when it's convenient."
Alden gave a quiet, noncommittal hum. Draco took it as encouragement.
"You should've seen the World Cup tents, Dreyse—Hufflepuffs everywhere, of course, all trying to look neutral. We had a perfect view of the Top Box. Father knows half the Department, you see. Potter was there, naturally. Sitting with the Weasleys, looking like he'd won the lottery just for breathing the same air as the Minister."
Alden's eyes flicked toward the train, where the carriages gleamed dull red under soot. "Mm."
"Then the Dark Mark nonsense after—" Draco lowered his voice, though the excitement didn't fade. "You'd think people would know better than to panic over a symbol. Half the Ministry was tripping over itself. Father says the investigation will lead nowhere. It never does."
He stepped aside to avoid a trolley of trunks, cape sweeping. "Honestly, Potter's probably still having nightmares about it. He fainted last year at a Quidditch match, didn't he? The Boy Who Trips."
"You talk about him often," Alden observed.
Draco blinked, caught mid-sentence. "Well—he's everywhere, isn't he? The papers can't stop printing his face. Someone should."
Alden's tone stayed mild.
"Then stop helping them."
For a heartbeat, Draco hesitated, unsure whether it was advice or an insult. He decided on neither and laughed it off.
"You sound like my mother. Fine—no Potter talk. But you have to admit, Weasley's family at the Cup was tragic. The father's a Ministry employee, you'd think he could afford better robes. Patchwork, Dreyse. Actual patches."
Alden lifted one eyebrow, eyes following a flock of owls bursting from a nearby crate.
"Perhaps they hold better than pride."
"You're impossible." Draco shook his head, smirking. "Still—wait until you see the look on Weasley's face when Beauxbatons arrives. Half the school will go stupid over them."
Alden said nothing, and the silence that followed didn't feel like disinterest—it felt like judgment too precise to name.
They reached the carriage steps as another whistle blew. Alden rested one gloved hand on the rail, gaze tracing the black smudge of smoke rising against the station ceiling. "We should board," he said at last.
Draco nodded, adjusting his collar again, voice quick to fill the quiet.
"Right. Come on then, before the Gryffindors think they own the place."
They climbed aboard. The corridor lights flickered gold against the glass, reflecting the two of them—one talking, animated and proud; the other silent, composed, eyes already turned toward the path ahead. Outside, the final shout of farewells blurred into the first lurch of motion as the train began to move.
The Hogwarts Express shuddered, gathering speed. Steam bled through the seams of every window, and the corridor lamps flickered gold against the glass as the countryside began to slide past in blurs of green. Students leaned out of compartments, shouting to friends, exchanging last letters, voices rising and falling like waves over the rhythmic clatter of wheels.
Draco led the way through the train, his voice already filling the space ahead of him.
"You'd think they'd fix the lighting in here—dim as a dungeon. Father says the Ministry's too busy pretending the Tournament will go smoothly. You know what they're like. Committees upon committees."
Alden walked a half-step behind him, coat buttoned, posture unbent by the motion. He neither interrupted nor encouraged; he simply was, the quiet center of a moving storm. Students pressed themselves against the corridor walls to let them pass, the air changing temperature as he went by, part respect, part superstition.
A burst of laughter from a nearby compartment made Draco glance over his shoulder. The door was open. Inside: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville—the usual Gryffindor gathering, surrounded by sweets and chatter.
Draco's mouth curved in a grin sharp enough to draw blood.
"Well, look who's taken over first class," he said, stopping in the doorway.
Ron's smile vanished.
"Don't remember inviting you, Malfoy."
Draco ignored him, eyes on the small figure of Viktor Krum that Ron was showing Neville.
"For the first and last time in your life, Weasley."
The sneer landed cleanly; Crabbe and Goyle snorted from behind, though their laughter carried no wit. Alden stood just to Draco's right, half in shadow, gaze steady on the compartment—not at any of them, but through them, as though measuring the air. His reflection hung in the window glass like another presence entirely.
Harry's hand twitched toward his wand before he caught himself. Hermione felt it—the odd, electric stillness in the doorway—and followed Harry's line of sight to Alden. He wasn't glaring. He simply looked, and somehow that was worse. The calm in his face made the space around him feel too neat, too arranged.
Neville swallowed, shifting his Chocolate Frog box between his hands.
Draco kept talking, drunk on his own voice.
"Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing those, were you?" He tugged at the dangling sleeve of Ron's dress robes, mock-horror in every syllable. "They were quite the rage in 1890, I hear. The lace is a nice touch."
Ron lunged to snatch them back, color flooding his ears. "Eat dung, Malfoy!"
Laughter burst from Crabbe and Goyle. Alden didn't move. Only his eyes shifted slightly toward Ron's clenched fist, the briefest measure of self-control before something rash.
Draco leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial purr.
"So... you going to enter Weasley? Try to bring a bit of glory to the family name? There's money involved, you know.... enough to buy some decent robes that fit."
What are you talking about?" snapped Ron.
"'Are you going to enter?' Malfoy repeated. "I suppose you will, though, right Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?
Hermione's book closed with a soft thud.
From over Draco's shoulder, Alden caught the gilt title along the spine — The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.
Foundational.
Not ambitious — but thorough. The margins were dense with ink.
At least she revised properly.
"Either explain what you're talking about, or go away, Malfoy," she said, tone tight but polite.
A gleeful smile began to spread across Draco's pale face.
"Don't tell me you don't know? " He said delightedly, almost too excited to continue. "You've got a father and a brother at the Ministry and you don't even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago. . . heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father's always associated with the top people at the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father's too junior to know about it, Weasley. . . yes. . . they probably don't talk about important stuff in front of him. . . ."
Ron shot to his feet so abruptly that the compartment seemed to shrink around him. His fists were clenched, ears blazing red, and for a moment it looked as though he might actually close the distance between himself and Draco. Harry rose more slowly beside him, jaw tight, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
Draco did not retreat. He looked almost pleased.
He felt the touch before he registered the movement — a gloved hand resting lightly against his shoulder. It was not forceful, not restraining, merely present.
"That's enough, Draco," Alden said quietly.
The words were polite, almost mild, but there was no mistaking the tone. It was neither cold nor warm; it carried no anger, no amusement — only decision.
"We should find Theo. There's no reason to linger."
Draco blinked, the laugh he had been forming stalling somewhere behind his teeth. For the briefest instant, he hesitated, as though weighing whether to continue. Then he sniffed lightly and straightened his sleeves, recovering himself with practiced ease.
"Quite right," he said airily. "No point trying to educate the hopeless."
He gestured to Crabbe and Goyle, who shuffled obediently after him, and the corridor swallowed them in the steady rhythm of the train.
They turned. The sound of their footsteps faded into the rhythm of the train.
Inside the compartment, the hum of the train filled the silence that had been left behind. The wheels beat a steady pulse beneath the floorboards, steady and indifferent.
Hermione lowered The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 into her lap, her eyes still fixed on the glass of the door where Alden's reflection had been a moment ago.
"That was strange," she murmured. "Even for Malfoy."
Ron was still muttering as he stuffed the robes into his trunk.
"Didn't like the way that Dreyse fellow stood there. Like he was waiting for something."
"He didn't look at us," Hermione said quietly. "That's what's odd. He looked through us."
Harry leaned back against the seat, brow furrowed. The image lingered — pale hair, steady eyes, no expression to anchor it.
"I've seen him before," Harry said. "Great Hall. Always at the end of the Slytherin table with Nott. He doesn't really join in when Malfoy starts."
Ron snorted. "Doesn't have to. Name does half the work."
Harry looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Ron shrugged, but his voice lowered slightly. "Dreyse. It's one of those old ones. Not like the Malfoys — they show off. Dreyses don't. Dad says they're… difficult."
"Difficult how?" Hermione asked.
Ron hesitated. "No one really knows. They're pure-blood, but they don't turn up much. Not at Ministry events, not at trials. Some people say they backed You-Know-Who. Others say they funded the other side. Depends who you ask."
Neville shifted, clutching the Chocolate Frog box a little tighter.
"My gran mentioned them once," he said. "She said they 'keep to themselves.' That when there's trouble, you never see them — but somehow they're never caught in it either."
Hermione frowned. "That's hardly proof of anything."
"No," Ron agreed. "That's what makes it worse."
The train rattled over a junction, the compartment giving a brief lurch.
Harry stared at the blurred countryside beyond the glass.
"Fred told me he froze an entire corridor last year," he said. "Actual frost on the walls. McGonagall had to seal it off."
Neville blinked. "By accident?"
"Fred didn't say. Just that one moment, there was a crack like breaking glass, and the next the floor was ice."
Hermione's expression sharpened.
"That would take extraordinary control," she said slowly. "Or recklessness. Either way…"
"Dangerous," Harry finished.
Ron slumped back into the seat, folding his arms.
"Figures he's in Slytherin. Bet he practices dark curses behind a tapestry somewhere. Probably bows to a cauldron before bed."
Neville hesitated again.
"Is it true he made a tree grow crystals?" he asked.
Harry turned. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Hannah Abbott," Neville admitted. "Her cousin's in Potions. Said Dreyse left a branch in the greenhouse after class. By morning, the bark had turned to glass. Professor Sprout nearly fainted."
Ron barked a laugh. "Right. Nex,t he'll be turning pumpkins into diamonds."
"It isn't funny," Hermione said sharply. "Magical crystallization outside a controlled focus charm isn't supposed to be possible. If he managed that—"
"—then he's not just clever," Harry said quietly. "He's something else."
The words settled heavily.
Neville swallowed.
"Do you think the rumors are true?" he asked. "About him being—well—"
Ron rolled his eyes. "The 'next Dark Lord'? Please. He's fourteen."
Hermione's voice was softer now.
"So was Tom Riddle once."
That lingered.
Even the train seemed to be quiet for a breath.
Harry looked down at his hands.
"Maybe he isn't anything like that," he said at last. "Maybe he's just… different."
Ron gave a short huff. "Different's one thing. Making people nervous without even speaking is another."
Hermione shut her book with quiet finality.
"We don't know him," she said. "All we have are whispers. And whispers grow teeth if you let them."
Outside, rain began to thread down the glass, blurring their reflections until they merged into something indistinct.
Neville nodded but didn't look convinced. Outside, the rain had begun to fall in thin leaks against the glass, sliding over their reflections until they blurred into one.
In that shifting mirror, Alden Dreyse's face lingered just long enough for imagination to turn him into anything it wished.
The rhythm of the train had settled into a steady thunder, strong enough to make the windowpanes tremble in their frames. Every few seconds, sparks from the engine streaked past the glass and vanished into the blur of countryside. The air smelled faintly of metal and warm parchment.
Alden and Draco moved toward the rear of the train, where the green-trimmed curtains marked the Slytherin compartments. Crabbe and Goyle followed several paces behind, speaking in low, uncertain voices, as though unsure whether laughter would be permitted.
Students turned as Alden passed. Conversations thinned. Whispers trailed after him.
"That's him—Dreyse—the one with the white hair."
"He froze a staircase last year."
"No, it was the lake. Turned it to glass."
"He writes his spells backward—I saw him in Charms."
Alden did not slow. His gaze remained forward, fixed not on faces but on distance, on space to be crossed. Draco, however, heard every word and smiled as though it were applause.
"You'd think they'd never seen a Slytherin open a book," he said over his shoulder. "They've made you into a cautionary tale. 'Behave, or Dreyse will crystallize your teacups.'"
Alden's expression did not change.
"Let them," he said mildly. "Stories are easier than questions."
Draco laughed. "I prefer admiration."
"Admiration," Alden replied, "is expensive."
Crabbe frowned at this; Goyle appeared to abandon the effort entirely.
They brushed past a pair of second-years who flattened themselves against the compartment wall. Someone, too quiet to challenge, muttered, "Dark Lord's apprentice." The phrase hung for a moment before being swallowed by the noise of the train.
Draco gave a dismissive sniff.
"They'd worship a shadow if it glared long enough."
"Then I'll be sure not to," Alden said.
Whether it was humor or not, Draco chose to laugh.
At the final carriage, where the corridor narrowed and the air grew perceptibly cooler, Theodore Nott stood leaning against the frame of an empty compartment, a book half-closed in his hand. His tie was loose, his hair falling just into his eyes. He looked up as they approached, his expression sharpening slightly before settling again.
"You took your time," he said. "I was beginning to think the rumors had detained you."
"They nearly did," Draco replied. "The train's full of them."
Theo's gaze shifted briefly to Alden.
"You'll forgive them," he said. "They need something to whisper about."
Alden inclined his head once.
"Fear circulates quickly," he said. "It requires very little effort."
"And even less evidence," Theo replied, stepping aside.
Inside, the compartment was quiet and orderly, the leather seats worn smooth by years of the same surnames. Draco dropped into one corner and tossed his cloak across the opposite seat. Alden took the window, placing a small green notebook on the table with deliberate care. Theo slid the door shut, and the corridor noise dulled to the steady pulse of the engine.
Crabbe and Goyle lingered outside.
"We'll sit further up," Goyle muttered.
Draco waved a hand without looking at them. "Try not to damage anything."
The door clicked.
Silence settled — not awkward, not tense. Simply precise.
Theo reopened his book, though his eyes did not move across the page. After a moment, they dropped to the pale scar along Alden's knuckles.
"You never said what caused that."
"Experiment," Alden replied.
Theo glanced up. "Successful?"
"Mostly."
Draco grinned. "He'll call anything progress if it leaves something frozen."
"Progress," Theo said mildly, "is a matter of perspective."
Outside, the sky had softened toward autumn gold. The train curved north through mist and fields, steady and unbothered. Inside the compartment, three Slytherins occupied the space in quiet equilibrium — one talking too much, one too little, and one content to observe the distance between.
The whispers did not follow them past the door.
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