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. I wasn't aware the head of the line was so young."
"Circumstance accelerated inheritance," Alden replied. "My parents passed during my first year. I manage what remains."
Lucius's expression did not soften, yet something in the gaze shifted from curiosity to regard.
"And still in Slytherin," he murmured. "Appropriate. You've kept the name well. My condolences for your loss."
"Thank you," Alden said. "The House has been… efficient in filling the gaps."
Lucius allowed the faintest smile.
"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.
"Going to enter the Tournament, Weasley? Bit of glory for the family name—there's money involved, you know. Enough to buy robes that fit."
Hermione's book closed with a soft thud.
"Either explain what you're talking about, or leave," she said, tone tight but polite.
Draco's grin widened.
"Don't tell me you don't know? My father told me ages ago—heard it straight from Cornelius Fudge. Guess the lower ranks of the Ministry don't get briefed on important things."
Ron's chair screeched backward. Harry half-rose, jaw tightening. For an instant, it looked like the usual explosion was coming—and then Alden moved.
Not fast. Not threatening. Just a quiet step forward, one gloved hand touching Draco's sleeve—barely a pressure. The words that followed were quiet enough that only the Gryffindors closest to the door could hear them.
"That's enough," he said. "We're wasting daylight."
Draco blinked, mid-laugh, confused by the sudden halt. But something in Alden's to, not cold, not warm, simply fi, froze the mockery in his throat. He straightened, sniffed, and gestured to Crabbe and Goyle.
"Come on, then. No point trying to educate the hopeless."
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 left behind. The wheels beat a steady pulse beneath the floorboards, and the sound of distancegrewg.
Hermione lowered The Standard Book of Spells, Gr, ade 4, into her lap, eyes still 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 jammed the robes into his trunk.
"Didn't like the way that Dreyse fellow looked at us. Like we were—what—mud on his shoes."
"He didn't look at us," said Hermione. "That's what's odd. He looked through us."
Harry leaned back against the seat, brow furrowed. The image of the boy's eyes lingered grey-green, unreadable.
"I've seen him before. In the Great Hall. Slytherin table. Always at the end with Nott."
Neville fidgeted with the Chocolate Frog box, voice low.
"He's in our year, isn't he? Fourth?"
Hermione nodded. "Alden Dreyse. Half the school talks about him. Not that anyone really talks to him."
Ron snorted. "Maybe because everyone's too busy running the other way."
Harry's gaze drifted to the window, the countryside sliding past in green streaks.
"I heard his name before. Fred said he froze an entire corridor with actual frost on the walls. McGonagall had to seal it off for a day."
Neville looked startled. "You mean by accident?"
"Fred didn't say," Harry replied. "Just that no one saw the spell. One moment, there was a noise like glass breaking; next, the floor was ice."
Hermione frowned thoughtfully.
"That would take enormous control… or recklessness. Either way, dangerous."
Ron slumped into the corner seat, folding his arms.
"Figures he's in Slytherin. Bet he practices dark curses behind the tapestry with Malfoy. A lot of them probably bow to a cauldron before bed."
Neville hesitated, voice small but curious.
"Is it true he—well, that he made a tree grow crystals?"
Harry turned to him. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Hannah Abbott," Neville admitted. "Her cousin's in Potions. She said Dreyse left a branch in one of the greenhouses after a lesson. The bark turned to glass overnight. Sprout nearly fainted."
Ron laughed. "Right. Next, he'll be turning pumpkins into diamonds. What's he want, a medal?"
"It's not funny, Ron," Hermione said sharply. "Magical crystallization isn't supposed to be possible outside a controlled focus charm. If he really managed that…"
Harry finished the thought quietly.
"…then he's not just clever. He's dangerous."
The compartment fell into another stretch of silence, broken only by the groan of the wheels and the rattle of the window latch. The world outside blurred into rain-colored streaks, the kind that swallowed sound and made everything feel smaller.
Neville shifted, uneasy.
"Do you think the rumors are true? About him being—well—"
Ron rolled his eyes. "The 'next Dark Lord'? Please. He's fourteen."
Hermione's voice was soft, uncertain.
"So was Tom Riddle once."
That landed heavier than anyone wanted. Even the train seemed to be quiet for a breath.
Harry looked down at his hands.
"Maybe he isn't anything like that. Maybe he's just… different."
"Different's one thing," Ron muttered. "Making frostbite fashionable's another."
Hermione sighed, shutting her book completely now.
"We don't know him. All we have are whispers. It's easier to be afraid of someone when you've never spoken to them."
Neville nodded but didn't look convinced. Outside, the rain had begun to falfall inn thineaks 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, the kind that made the windows tremble and the light waver. Every few seconds, a spark from the engine streaked past the glass like a wandering star. The air smelled faintly of metal and warm parchment.
Alden and Draco made their way toward the rear of the train, where the green-trimmed curtains marked the Slytherin sections. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered a few paces behind, speaking in the low, uncertain tones of boys who weren't sure whether to laugh or stay quiet.
Students turned in their seats as Alden passed. Conversations faltered, whispers slid after him like ripples.
"That's him—Dreyse—look, the one with the white hai.""He froze an entire staircase last year."No, it was the lake. He turned it to glass."He writes his spells backward—saw him do it in Charms."
Alden's expression didn't change. The eyes that had unsettled half the school remained fixed ahead, measuring distance, not people. Draco heard the murmurs and grinned as though they were background music.
"Honestly," he said over his shoulder, "you'd think they'd never seen a Slytherin who reads a book. They've turned you into a bedtime story, Dreyse. 'Behave or he'll hex your teacups solid.' "
Alden's answer was mild.
"Let them have their stories. They're safer that way."
"Safe's overrated," Draco said, laughing. "I prefer admired."
"Admiration," Alden replied, "costs more than fear and pays less."
Crabbe looked confused; Goyle had already lost. Draco smirked but said nothing, brushing past a group of second-years who scrambled out of the aisle. Someone whispered "Dark Lord's apprentice" as they went by; the phrase hung just long enough to be heard, then died under the rattle of the wheels.
Draco muttered,
"They'd worship a shadow if it glared at them twice."
"Then I'll stop glaring," Alden said, voice too even to tell if it was humor.
Draco chuckled anyway.
They reached the final carriage, the one where the corridor narrowed and the air grew cooler. A tall, thin boy stood there, leaning against the doorway of an empty compartment, book half-closed in his hand. Theodore Nott—pale, sharp-featured, quiet in a way that suggested he preferred observation to interruption. His tie was loose, his hair slightly overlong, and his expression the kind of calm that came from expecting nothing and being right about it.
He looked up, a faint smile tugging one corner of his mouth.
"You took your time. I was beginning to think the rumors had eaten you."
"Almost did," Draco said. "The train's full of them."
Theo's gaze shifted to Alden.
"You'll forgive them. They need something to be afraid of between exams."
Alden inclined his head. "Fear's efficient. It spreads without effort."
"And dies without proof," Theo added, stepping aside so they could enter.
Inside, the compartment was clean, the leather seats dark and worn smooth by years of the same names. Draco dropped into one corner, tossing his cloak across the opposite seat. Alden took the window, setting his small green notebook on the table with careful precision. Theo slid the door shut, muting the noise of the corridor until only the engine's heartbeat remained.
Outside, Crabbe and Goyle lingered uncertainly.
"We'll sit—uh—further up," Goyle said.
Draco waved them off. "Suit yourselves. Try not to drool on the upholstery."
The door clicked. Silence settled, comfortable and exact.
Theo opened his book again but didn't read, glancing instead at the frost-white scar along Alden's knuckles.
"You never did say what caused that."
"Experiment," Alden replied.
"Successful?"
"Mostly."
Draco grinned. "He never tells the fun parts. Probably froze his teacup solid and decided it was progress."
Theo smirked without looking up. "Progress is relative."
Outside, the sky had begun to pale into autumn gold. The train curved north, cutting through mist and fields. In their compartment, three Slytherins sat in an easy triangle of silence, one talking too much, one too little, and one content to measure the space between.
The rumors followed them down the corridor like echoes, but none crossed the door.
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