The Great Hall did not erupt all at once.
It fractured.
Whispers broke out in jagged clusters, swelling and collapsing like nervous laughter after a near accident. Students leaned toward one another, heads close, eyes bright with something between disbelief and exhilaration.
"He really said it—""Did you hear him?""He challenged them—he actually—"
Alden sat back in the chair as though he had merely asked for the time. The chains around his wrists hummed faintly, reacting to the surge of magic and emotion in the air, but he did not look down at them. He did not look anywhere at all, in fact, only forward, his gaze steady, faintly amused, as if watching a performance he already knew the ending to.
Selwyn was the first to move.
He lifted a hand—not sharply, not angrily, but with the measured authority of a man accustomed to rooms quieting when he gestured. The murmurs dulled, though they did not disappear entirely.
"This," Selwyn said coolly, "has gone far enough."
Alden's smile deepened by the barest degree.
Selwyn took a step forward, boots echoing against the stone. "A duel between Ministry officials and a student is entirely inappropriate. Reckless. Unsafe. It violates protocol at every conceivable level."
"Protocol," someone whispered near the Ravenclaw table, and a few students snorted before stifling it.
Vane seized on the opening, his voice sharper, almost indignant. "We are not here to indulge theatrics," he snapped. "We are representatives of the Ministry of Magic. To even suggest that we—"
"—lower ourselves," finished a voice from the Hufflepuff side, sotto voce.
Vane flushed. "—engage in combat with a minor is absurd."
Thorne did not speak.
He stood slightly apart from the others, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed somewhere just above Alden's shoulder. His face was pale now—not shocked, exactly, but tight, as though he were calculating something unpleasant and finding no acceptable answers.
Umbridge, however, was vibrating.
"This is exactly what I warned you about!" she trilled loudly, stepping forward so that the hem of her pink cardigan brushed the edge of the platform. "Unstable behavior! Grandstanding! An obvious attempt to incite chaos and undermine authority!"
Her eyes gleamed.
"This challenge proves everything we've said about him," she went on, warming to her theme. "Arrogant. Manipulative. Dangerous. Trying to turn the student body against the Ministry—"
"Oh, he's already done that," someone muttered. A ripple of laughter followed, quickly smothered.
Alden did not respond.
He watched.
He watched Selwyn's jaw tighten each time the murmurs grew louder. He watched Vane's eyes flick to the exits, then back to the crowd. He watched Umbridge talk herself into breathless indignation.
And all the while, he sat perfectly still, silver hair catching the torchlight, blood dried dark at the corner of his mouth, smiling as though this were all proceeding precisely as planned.
At the Slytherin table, Theo had gone very quiet.
"This is bad," he muttered under his breath. "This is really bad."
Daphne's fingers were clenched so tightly in her robes that her knuckles had gone white. "He's enjoying it," she whispered, not accusingly—more in disbelief.
Tracey shook her head slowly. "They're not saying no."
Draco Malfoy hadn't spoken at all. He was watching the inquisitors with a look Alden had never seen on his face before—something brittle and wary, as though a carefully constructed world had cracked and he wasn't sure how far the damage went.
Across the hall, the Ravenclaws were alive with motion—heads bent together, hands gesturing in excited patterns.
"Did you see the way he reframed it?""They can't refuse without looking afraid—""And if they do duel—Merlin, imagine seeing Ministry magic up close—"
At the Gryffindor table, the mood was different.
"He's so full of himself," someone hissed."He's going to get flattened," said another, with a touch too much hope. Harry Potter said nothing at all. He sat hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on Alden, stomach twisting. Part of him wanted Alden to stop—wanted him to back down, to let this end. Another part, smaller and more dangerous, couldn't look away.
Selwyn raised his voice again, sharper now.
"This conversation is no longer productive," he said. "The demonstration is concluded."
Alden's gaze flicked to him at last.
"Is it?" he asked mildly.
The question was soft. Polite.
It landed like a dropped glass.
Selwyn hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
Alden noticed.
"So far," Alden continued, voice carrying easily through the hall, "you've explained why you can't duel. Whis y it inappropriate? Why is it beneath you? Why does it violate protocol?
He tilted his head.
"You haven't said you won't."
The murmurs rose again, louder this time. Curious. Expectant.
Umbridge's smile had stretched thin enough to crack. "This is not a game, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden's eyes gleamed.
"No," he agreed. "That's why it's interesting."
Selwyn drew himself up. "We will not be baited into—"
"—then don't be," Alden said lightly.
He leaned back in the chair, chains chiming softly, his expression open, almost generous.
"I'm quite content to wait."
And that, somehow, was worse than any shout.
Because as the inquisitors scrambled for words—protocols, propriety, procedure—the Great Hall began to understand what Alden Dreyse had done.
He hadn't forced them into a corner.
He'd given them space.
And in that space, with the eyes of Hogwarts upon them, the Ministry's finest were discovering that excuses sounded an awful lot like fear.
Umbridge's smile had hardened into something brittle.
"We do not," she announced sharply, voice pitched to carry over the growing murmur, "entertain theatrics at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—least of all from students who delight in disruption."
A few heads turned at that. Several eyebrows rose.
"This display," Umbridge went on, pink cheeks flushing, "has already gone far beyond what was appropriate. The demonstration is concluded. Any further—"
"—demonstration?" someone whispered loudly from the Slytherin side.
A snicker followed. Then another.
Umbridge's eyes snapped toward the sound. "Silence!"
But the silence did not come.
Instead, it shifted—coalesced—voices dropping lower, closer, more intent.
"They're stalling," murmured an older Slytherin prefect to the girl beside him."Of course they are," she replied quietly. "If he beats them—"
"—in front of everyone," another finished. "Half this room has parents on the Wizengamot."
A ripple of understanding moved through the green-and-silver tables.
"They can't afford that," someone whispered. "Not publicly."
Alden remained where he was, chains faintly chiming as he shifted his weight, gaze fixed on Umbridge with mild curiosity—as though she were an especially transparent puzzle.
"You see?" Umbridge said, turning slightly, gesturing toward the students as though they proved her point. "This is exactly the sort of manipulation I warned you about. He incites speculation. He turns the student body against authority."
She pointed a short, stubby finger at Alden.
"He wants you whispering."
A Ravenclaw girl in the third row leaned toward her friend, eyes bright.
"I mean," she murmured, "if they're so confident in their assessment, statistically speaking, refusing the duel lowers their credibility."
Her friend nodded eagerly. "Exactly. If Alden's wrong, they win. If he's right—well." A pause. "They wouldn't be here in the first place."
Behind them, an older Ravenclaw boy frowned thoughtfully.
"And did you hear what he said about spell structure?" he whispered. "He's right, you know. Half those incantations—if they were even incantations—didn't follow standard Ministry matrices at all."
"I still remember last year," someone else murmured, quieter now. "With Moody."
That name spread quickly.
"How they argued constantly," another added."And how Alden blocked that curse aimed at Malfoy—""—without even finishing the incantation."
Several students glanced toward the staff table, where Snape sat rigid and unspeaking, eyes hooded.
Umbridge's voice rose, strained now. "This—this gossip is irrelevant! The Ministry does not perform for children!"
"No," came a voice from near the back. "It investigates, doesn't it?"
Umbridge spun, searching for the speaker.
"The Ministry does not duel students," she snapped. "Such an act would be undignified."
Undignified.
The word landed poorly.
"Sounds like fear to me," someone muttered.
Alden's smile flickered—not wider, not sharper—simply more certain.
Umbridge pressed on, words tumbling faster now. "This entire challenge is a transparent attempt to provoke. To paint himself as a victim. To distract from the very real concerns raised by his conduct."
Her gaze darted briefly to Selwyn.
"Director Selwyn has already stated—"
Selwyn did not move.
Did not speak.
The silence beside her was louder than any interruption.
Alden watched her carefully now, head tilted, as though observing a creature backed into unfamiliar territory.
"Curious," he said softly.
The word cut through her tirade like a blade.
Umbridge's mouth snapped shut.
"You keep saying this is beneath you," Alden went on mildly. "Inappropriate. Undignified. Unsafe."
He glanced toward the whispering students, then back to her.
"And yet no one here seems convinced."
The murmurs swelled again—not loud, but persistent, alive.
"They won't do it," someone said."They can't.""Imagine losing to him—""—in front of Dumbledore.""—in front of their children."
Umbridge's face had gone a blotchy pink now, her carefully cultivated cheerfulness cracking at the edges.
"This conversation," she said shrilly, "is over!"
But no one moved.
No one looked away.
And Alden Dreyse did not say another word.
He didn't need to.
Because as Umbridge grasped for authority that no longer answered her call, the truth spread quietly through the Great Hall—
The Ministry had come to Hogwarts to judge.
The Great Hall was still humming—low, restless, electric—when a chair scraped softly against stone.
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Every sound seemed to draw inward as Albus Dumbledore rose from the staff table.
The whispering ebbed, not all at once, but in waves, as students realized—one by one—that the moment had shifted. Even Umbridge, mid-breath and visibly searching for her next protest, froze as though an invisible hand had pressed gently but firmly between her shoulder blades.
Dumbledore did not raise his voice.
"My dear Dolores," he said mildly, adjusting the fall of his sleeve as though this were a routine interruption rather than the fulcrum of the morning, "I fear we have reached the point where everyone involved believes the other has gone too far."
A pause. Thoughtful. Almost kind.
"In that," he continued, "I suspect you are all quite correct."
A ripple of surprise passed through the hall.
Alden's gaze lifted—interested now, sharp.
Dumbledore turned slightly, addressing the inquisitors first, his tone warm, conversational.
"Director Selwyn. Inquisitor Vane. Mr. Thorne." He inclined his head to each in turn. "You came to Hogwarts, at the Ministry's invitation, to educate. To demonstrate. To reassure."
He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that suggested chess, not comfort.
"And I must say—this has been educational."
A murmur ran through the students, quickly stifled.
"You have shown us," Dumbledore went on serenely, "the tools of investigation. The dangers of assumption. The weight of authority when applied… enthusiastically."
Umbridge opened her mouth.
Dumbledore did not look at her.
"However," he said gently, "what you may be forgetting is that Hogwarts is not merely a school—it is a place where curiosity thrives. Where young witches and wizards are taught not simply what to think, but how."
His eyes twinkled as he glanced out over the tables.
"And at present," he added, "it seems our students remain—how shall I put this?—unsatisfied."
That did it.
The hall stirred again, louder now, less restrained.
"They want it," someone whispered."He's saying they asked for it—""—and they did."
Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back and turned at last toward Alden.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said calmly, "you have challenged the Ministry's representatives in a manner… spirited."
Alden inclined his head slightly, chains chiming.
"And you," Dumbledore continued, eyes flicking back to Selwyn, "have questioned his character, his magic, and his intentions—publicly, and at length."
Selwyn stiffened.
Dumbledore spread his hands.
"In light of that," he said pleasantly, "I find it difficult to argue that a controlled, supervised demonstration of magical competence would be less appropriate than what we are currently witnessing."
Umbridge made a sharp, strangled sound.
"This is outrageous," she snapped. "Headmaster, you cannot possibly be suggesting—"
"I am suggesting," Dumbledore said smoothly, finally meeting her gaze, "that we finish what was begun."
Silence fell like a held breath.
"After all," he went on, as though reasoning through a syllabus, "many of these students will one day serve the Ministry. Aurors. Analysts. Legislators." His eyes glinted. "Would it not benefit them to observe Ministry officials exemplifying discipline, restraint, and—most importantly—magical proficiency?"
A pause.
"Under staff supervision, of course," he added lightly. "With safety wards. Clear boundaries."
The trap snapped shut—not audibly, but unmistakably.
Refuse, and admit fear. Accept, and risk humiliation.
Dumbledore's smile deepened, just enough.
"It seems," he concluded, "a far more educational solution than continued accusations."
Alden said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Because across from him, Selwyn's jaw tightened. Vane's fingers flexed. Thorne swallowed.
And Umbridge—pink, furious, cornered—realized, far too late, that in attempting to control the narrative, she had handed the Headmaster a far better one.
For a moment—just one—the Ministry delegation said nothing.
It was Selwyn who moved first.
Not quickly. Not abruptly. He straightened with the careful precision of a man aware that every eye in the Great Hall was now fixed upon him, weighing not merely his words, but the courage behind them. His fingers tightened once around his wand, then relaxed, smoothing the front of his robes as though composure itself might be pressed back into place.
"This is," he said at last, voice level, "highly irregular."
A ripple of near-laughter passed through the students before being smothered.
Vane stepped half a pace forward, her sharp eyes flicking from Dumbledore to Alden and back again. "The Ministry does not submit to provocation," she said stiffly. "We are not here to indulge—"
"—children?" Alden supplied mildly.
She glared at him.
Selwyn lifted a hand, forestalling her. He had gone very still now, and it was suddenly clear that he had finished calculating. Refusal would not end this. Refusal would define it. In a room filled with future Ministry clerks, lawmakers, and enforcers—many with surnames already whispered in corridors of power—silence would be remembered far longer than defeat.
He inclined his head toward Dumbledore.
"If," Selwyn said carefully, "this demonstration is conducted under Hogwarts' supervision… and within clearly defined limits… the Ministry will consent."
A collective intake of breath swept the hall.
Vane turned sharply. "Director—"
"—conditionally," Selwyn added, cutting her off without looking at her. "And with the understanding that this does not legitimize the student's conduct."
Umbridge's face had gone a peculiar shade of puce.
"This is absurd," she hissed, though her voice lacked its earlier certainty. "Headmaster, I must protest—"
"You have," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "At length."
She snapped her mouth shut.
Thorne had not spoken once. He stood rigid, eyes locked on Alden now, as though seeing him properly for the first time—not bound to a chair, not framed by accusation, but upright and waiting.
Waiting.
The chains around Alden's wrists loosened with a soft metallic sigh.
The sound carried.
Every student leaned forward.
Alden rose.
Not hurriedly. Not triumphantly. He stood as though this had always been the inevitable outcome, rolling his shoulders once as feeling returned to his hands. A thin smear of dried blood marked his cuff; he brushed it away absently, eyes never leaving the four figures before him.
Then he smiled.
It was not mocking.
It was not cruel.
It was bright.
"Well," he said lightly, stepping forward into the open space before the staff table, boots echoing against the stone. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Selwyn felt it first—a tightening between the shoulders, a sensation as cold water poured slowly down the spine.
Vane felt it next, her grip on her wand shifting unconsciously.
Even Umbridge, seething and rigid beside them, felt a flicker of something unwelcome crawl up her throat.
Alden stood alone now, framed by hundreds of watching faces. Students. Professors. Ghosts hovering nearer than they had any right to.
He looked very young.
And very certain.
"You see," Alden went on calmly, clasping his hands behind his back, "I never expected you to refuse."
His gaze moved over them, unhurried.
"I only needed you to agree."
For the first time since they had arrived at Hogwarts, the Ministry's inquisitors understood the mistake they had made.
And it was already far too late.