The sound came first.
A low, reluctant click—metal protesting its own obedience.
The enchanted cuffs around Alden's wrists loosened with a soft recoil, the chain between them slackening as though even the magic binding them hesitated to let go. A faint shimmer ran along the runes etched into their surface, flaring once, then guttering out like a dying wick.
The sensation was… abrupt.
Pain did not fade gradually. It ended.
One moment, there was pressure—sharp, invasive, a constant hum beneath the skin—and the next, there was nothing at all. No echo. No aftershock. Just absence, clean and unmistakable.
Alden did not react at once.
He stood very still, head slightly inclined, as though listening for something that wasn't there anymore. Then, without ceremony, he flexed his fingers once. Not tentatively. Not in relief. Simply checking that they obeyed him as they always had.
They did.
The faint red marks around his wrists paled almost immediately, the skin smoothing as if it had never been disturbed at all. Whatever magic had been woven into the cuffs had been precise—designed to hurt, not to linger. Controlled. Measured.
Alden noted it distantly.
Across from him, Umbridge watched.
She leaned forward just slightly, squat fingers clenched tight around the handle of her handbag, eyes fixed on his hands with an intensity that bordered on anticipation. As though she expected him to sway. To gasp. To falter now that the restraint was gone and the pain no longer held him upright.
He did none of those things.
He rolled his shoulders once, slowly, as sensation settled fully back into place, then let his arms fall naturally at his sides. The movement was fluid, unremarkable—almost casual.
The disappointment on Umbridge's face was brief, but unmistakable.
Selwyn noticed too. His expression did not change, but something tightened in the line of his jaw. Vane's gaze flicked sharply from Alden's wrists to his face, her grip on her wand shifting without her seeming to realize it.
Only Thorne did not look away.
Alden lifted his eyes then—not to Umbridge, not to Selwyn—but to the space beyond them, the breadth of the Great Hall still heavy with watching bodies and held breath. He took one step forward, the sound of his boot against the stone floor ringing out far louder than it had any right to.
Unbound.
For the first time since they had arrived, the Ministry delegation understood—truly understood—that the chains had never been the thing holding him in place.
And that now, whatever came next would not be happening on their terms.
Dumbledore had not moved.
He remained standing behind the staff table, hands folded loosely before him, gaze drifting over the Great Hall as though he were surveying a classroom rather than a chamber brimming with hundreds of restless students and a Ministry delegation freshly wrong-footed. The silence stretched—long enough to become uncomfortable—before he spoke.
"Thank you," he said mildly.
The words were not addressed to anyone in particular, yet they carried easily, settling over the Hall with the gentle inevitability of a bell tolling the end of a lesson.
"If you would all be so kind," Dumbledore continued, "I am going to ask you to leave the Great Hall for a short while."
The reaction was immediate.
A ripple of sound swept through the benches—confused at first, then brightening rapidly into something else entirely. Students leaned toward one another, whispers colliding and tangling as speculation ignited like dry tinder.
Dumbledore raised one hand, palm outward, and the noise ebbed.
"The Hall will be repurposed briefly," he went on, tone calm, almost conversational, "to accommodate the arrangements necessary for what follows." His eyes twinkled faintly. "You may consider this… an extended recess. Five minutes should suffice."
Five minutes.
The words landed like a spark in oil.
A wave of excitement surged through the room. Benches scraped back, conversations bursting forth all at once now—unrestrained, breathless, alive with possibility.
"He's actually doing it—"
"Did you see Umbridge's face?"
"There's no way the Ministry wins this—"
"I don't know, they've got adults—"
"Have you seen Dreyse cast?"
The Great Hall erupted into motion as students poured toward the doors, already arguing, already placing invisible wagers, the air thick with anticipation and disbelief. Professors rose to guide them out, though few made much effort to suppress the energy crackling through the crowd.
Dumbledore waited until the flow had begun before adding, almost as an afterthought, "Mr. Dreyse, if you would remain."
The words were gentle.
The effect was not.
Alden felt it immediately—the subtle shift as attention snapped back to him, curiosity sharpening into something more focused. He did not respond at once. Instead, he turned his head, eyes searching the departing sea of green, silver, and black.
He found them easily.
Daphne Greengrass paused near the aisle, her hand tightening briefly around the strap of her bag as their gazes met. Her expression was composed, but her eyes were not—there was concern there, quiet and fierce, carefully leashed.
Theo Nott stood beside her, already calculating, his look thoughtful rather than afraid. He inclined his head once, a small, precise gesture that said be careful without a single word.
Draco Malfoy hovered a step behind, caught between exhilaration and dread, his mouth set in a thin line. He looked as though he wanted to say something clever—something reassuring—and had no idea how.
Pansy Parkinson did not bother with restraint. Her glare was fixed squarely on Umbridge, sharp enough to cut glass, lips pressed together in open defiance. She looked back at Alden only once, chin lifted, as if daring him not to come back.
Tracey Davis lingered at the edge of the group, her expression unreadable, eyes flicking between Alden and the Ministry officials with quiet intensity. She gave him a short nod—grounded, pragmatic, steady.
None of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
One by one, they turned and followed the others out, the doors of the Great Hall swinging wide before closing again with a heavy, echoing finality.
The sound lingered.
When the last student had gone, the Hall felt suddenly immense—its vaulted ceiling higher, its long tables too empty, the silence no longer shared but imposed. The echoes of excitement faded, leaving behind something colder, sharper.
Only authority remained.
Dumbledore stepped forward at last, robes whispering against the stone.
"Thank you for your patience," he said pleasantly, eyes moving between Alden and the Ministry delegation. "Now, then. Let us ensure that what comes next is conducted properly."
Alden stood where he was, unbound and alone in the center of the Hall, the space around him cleared of everything except intent.
Behind him, the doors were closed.
Ahead of him, the world was about to be rearranged
The doors shut with a sound that carried.
Not a slam—nothing so crude—but a deep, resonant closing that rolled through the Great Hall and settled into the stones themselves. The last echo faded slowly, leaving behind a silence that was no longer expectant, but stripped bare.
Only authority remained.
The Great Hall felt different without students in it. Vast. Exposed. The enchanted ceiling seemed higher than before, the long tables suddenly too small for the space they occupied, like furniture abandoned in a cathedral. Every footstep, every breath, every faint rustle of fabric carried farther than it should have.
Umbridge let out a small, satisfied huff, smoothing the front of her cardigan as though the room had finally been set to rights.
"At last," she said, voice sharp in the emptiness. "Some sense."
No one answered her.
Dumbledore had already raised his wand.
The movement was unhurried, almost lazy, but the effect was immediate. With a soft, rolling sound—like distant thunder muffled by earth—the benches nearest the center of the Hall began to shift. They did not scrape or drag; instead, they slid as though guided by invisible hands, gliding backward, folding neatly into themselves before dissolving into motes of pale gold light that drifted upward and vanished.
More followed.
The remaining tables drew away from the center in a slow, deliberate retreat, the floor beneath them expanding subtly, stone stretching and smoothing until the open space widened far beyond what should have been possible. The Hall did not fight the change. It yielded, accommodating the transformation with quiet, obedient grace.
Professor McGonagall watched with her lips pressed thin, arms folded tightly, eyes sharp with appraisal. Flitwick had risen onto the tips of his toes, peering eagerly over the edge of the staff table. Sprout shifted her weight, dirt-stained hands clasped together, expression grave. Even Hagrid, looming near the doors, had gone very still.
Snape, standing slightly apart, said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on Alden, dark eyes unreadable.
Dumbledore lowered his wand at last.
"There," he said softly. "That should suffice."
Umbridge's satisfaction faltered.
She glanced around, taking in the cleared space, the widening floor, the professors arrayed along the perimeter like a quiet, immovable wall. The sense of control she had enjoyed moments earlier thinned, something uneasy slipping into its place.
"This is hardly necessary," she muttered. "All this drama—"
"—is quite standard," McGonagall cut in crisply, stepping forward a pace. "For supervised demonstrations."
Umbridge flushed. "I was not speaking to you, Minerva."
"And yet," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "you were answered."
Selwyn had not spoken since the doors closed.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate, eyes fixed on Alden with the focused intensity of a man confronting an equation that refused to balance. There was no hostility in his expression now—only calculation, sharpened and relentless.
Alden met his gaze without flinching.
Unbound, he seemed somehow smaller in the vastness of the Hall—and yet the space bent subtly around him, as though acknowledging his presence all the same. He stood with his weight evenly distributed, hands relaxed at his sides, face composed. If he felt the attention of every adult wizard in the room, he gave no sign of it.
Vane shifted her stance, boots clicking softly against the stone. Her earlier aggression had cooled into something tighter, more brittle. Her eyes flicked from Alden to Dumbledore, then to the professors lining the edges of the Hall, as though belatedly realizing how many witnesses remained.
Thorne, by contrast, did not look at Alden at all.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, across the room—taking in McGonagall's rigid posture, Flitwick's alert curiosity, Snape's coiled stillness, Dumbledore's infuriating calm. Something had unsettled him. It showed in the way his shoulders had drawn back, his attention sharpening rather than narrowing.
Umbridge felt it too.
She took a step back without seeming to notice she had done so, heels clicking sharply. The space that had felt so comfortably hierarchical moments ago now felt… uneven. Tilted. As though the absence of students had not simplified matters, but complicated them.
Dumbledore turned at last, his gaze sweeping the assembled group.
"Now," he said, voice warm but precise, "before we proceed, there are certain matters of conduct to clarify."
Alden inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the shift.
The Ministry delegation did the same—some more stiffly than others.
The Hall waited.
And in the quiet that followed, it became painfully clear just how small the Ministry's authority looked when stripped of spectacle, audience, and noise—standing alone under the weight of Hogwarts stone, watched by those who had seen far worse than bureaucratic certainty ever had to offer.
Dumbledore stepped into the newly cleared space as though it had always belonged to him.
The Great Hall seemed to settle around his presence, the faint magical hum beneath the stones evening out as he turned, wand loosely balanced between his fingers. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"Before we continue," he said calmly, "the terms of this demonstration must be made explicit."
His gaze moved first to the Ministry delegation—not challengingly, but expectantly—then back to Alden.
"This is not a duel of conquest," Dumbledore continued. "Nor is it a trial by combat. It is, as agreed, an educational exercise. As such, there are boundaries."
He lifted one finger.
"No spell cast may be intended to maim, permanently injure, or kill."
Another finger joined it.
"The three Unforgivable Curses are, of course, prohibited."
A third.
"The duel will conclude upon disarmament, incapacitation, or clear concession."
He paused, allowing the words to settle, then added lightly, "I should also note that incapacitation does not include embarrassment."
McGonagall's mouth twitched despite herself.
Dumbledore turned slightly, gesturing with his wand. A faint shimmer rippled through the air above the floor—barely visible, like heat haze in summer.
"Protective wards will be established," he said. "They will contain stray magic, absorb excessive force, and ensure that no observer, student or otherwise, comes to harm. Any spell exceeding the agreed threshold will be dampened automatically."
Selwyn inclined his head a fraction. "And if a spell is… redirected?" he asked evenly. "Deflected attacks have a tendency to behave unpredictably."
"Quite," Dumbledore agreed pleasantly. "Which is why the wards will respond to intent as well as output. Should either party attempt escalation beyond the parameters, the duel will be halted."
Vane's jaw tightened. "And who decides when that line has been crossed?"
Dumbledore smiled at her. Not kindly.
"I do."
Silence followed.
Alden had not moved. He stood with his hands folded loosely behind his back, listening with the same focus he brought to advanced theory lectures—eyes sharp, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.
Umbridge let out a sharp, high laugh.
"This is absurd," she said. "You're placing an extraordinary amount of trust in a student—one already under investigation for reckless, dangerous magic."
Dumbledore turned to her at last.
"On the contrary," he replied gently. "I am placing trust in structure. In rules. And in supervision." His eyes flicked, briefly, to the assembled professors. "Which seems to me rather the Ministry's preferred approach."
Umbridge opened her mouth.
McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.
Flitwick nodded with brisk enthusiasm. "Quite sound parameters, Albus. Very sound."
Snape said nothing, but his gaze flicked once to Alden's wand hand—measuring, assessing.
Dumbledore returned his attention to Alden.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said, tone shifting—firmer now, unmistakably instructional. "Do you understand and accept these conditions?"
Alden inclined his head.
"I do."
"And will you abide by them?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
No hesitation. No qualifiers.
Dumbledore's eyes lingered on him a moment longer, searching for something—then he nodded once.
"Very well."
He turned back to the Ministry.
"Then we are agreed."
Selwyn nodded tightly, lips pressed thin. Vane looked as though she had swallowed something sharp. Umbridge stared at the empty floor, pink-faced and seething.
The rules had been spoken.
The excuses were gone.
And in the cleared heart of the Great Hall, with wards already stirring beneath the stone, the duel had become inevitable—not as a test of power, but as a measure of who truly understood restraint.
Umbridge had been vibrating with it for several seconds before she finally spoke.
"This is all very well," she said, her voice cutting sharply across the Hall, syrupy sweetness strained to breaking. "But surely we are overlooking the most obvious concern."
Dumbledore turned his head slightly, expression patient.
"And that would be?"
Umbridge straightened, clasping her hands together as though addressing a recalcitrant classroom rather than a room full of the most accomplished witches and wizards in Britain.
"Mr. Dreyse," she said pointedly, "has an established history of… unusual spellwork. Dark spellwork." Her eyes flicked to Alden, glittering with vindication. "Are we to understand that Hogwarts now finds it acceptable for a student to demonstrate dark magic before the entire school and faculty?"
The word dark lingered, heavy and deliberate.
Alden did not look at her.
He was studying the Hall.
The way the stone floor had widened seamlessly beneath their feet. The way the air hummed faintly now, layered wards settling into place like invisible scaffolding. He tilted his head slightly, as though considering an academic curiosity rather than an accusation leveled at his character.
Then he spoke.
Calmly. Clearly. At full volume.
"Of course, the coward hiding behind her title—and the Ministry's attack dogs—would mistake anything beyond her comprehension for dark magic."
The words landed cleanly.
Umbridge sucked in a sharp breath.
Alden turned at last, grey-green eyes cool, almost bored.
"She likely performed poorly in her studies," he continued mildly, "as anyone who actually understands magic knows that what you label dark is often nothing more than an inverted or reframed variation of an existing spell." He paused, gaze flicking briefly over Selwyn, Vane, and Thorne. "But that degree of comprehension is, evidently, beyond both you and the Ministry."
Silence fell.
Not stunned silence—loaded silence.
Snape's mouth twitched, just barely, before he schooled it into a familiar sneer. McGonagall had gone very still, lips pressed thin, eyes fixed firmly on a distant point above Umbridge's head. Flitwick coughed into his hand with suspicious timing, shoulders trembling faintly. Sprout stared resolutely at the floor, a hand over her mouth.
Hagrid made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
Umbridge, by contrast, had gone scarlet.
"How dare you—" she shrilled, stepping forward.
"Mr. Dreyse."
Dumbledore's voice cut through the rising fury with effortless precision.
Alden turned immediately.
"There is no need for that," Dumbledore said, tone mild but unmistakably firm. "Whatever our differences, civility remains expected within these walls."
Alden inclined his head at once.
"My apologies, Headmaster," he said evenly. "I spoke too plainly."
Umbridge looked as though she might combust.
Dumbledore did not give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement.
Instead, he turned back to Alden, blue eyes sharp now—not disapproving, but intent.
"However," he continued, "your underlying point warrants clarification."
He addressed the Hall at large.
"Magic is not divided neatly into moral categories," Dumbledore said. "Intent, application, and consequence matter far more than labels." His gaze flicked, briefly, to Umbridge. "As such, Mr. Dreyse will not be restricted based on terminology alone."
Umbridge's mouth fell open.
"So you're allowing it?" she demanded. "You're permitting—"
"I am permitting," Dumbledore said smoothly, "any spell that falls within the conditions already stated."
He turned back to Alden.
"So long as it does not maim, permanently injure, or kill your opponent."
Alden met his eyes.
"Yes, Headmaster."
"No Unforgivables."
"Of course not."
"And no deliberate escalation."
Alden's expression did not change.
"I understand."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Very good."
The exchange had taken less than a minute.
And yet, when it ended, something fundamental had shifted.
The Ministry no longer dictated the boundaries.
Alden stood unrestrained, permitted, acknowledged—his philosophy affirmed not by argument, but by rule.
Umbridge stared at him, seething, realization dawning far too late.
This was not indulgence.
It was an endorsement.
And with the rules now set, there was nothing left to hide behind but performance.
Dumbledore let the silence breathe for a moment longer than was comfortable.
Then he inclined his head slightly, the faintest gesture of completion.
"Very well," he said. "Are there any further points requiring clarification before we proceed?"
The question was offered openly, neutrally—an invitation rather than a challenge. His gaze moved between the Ministry delegation and Alden, pausing nowhere long enough to suggest expectation.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Alden shifted his weight.
The movement was subtle, almost incidental, but it drew the eye all the same. He stepped forward half a pace, posture relaxed, hands loosely clasped behind his back once more.
"Yes," he said calmly.
Every head turned.
"I would like to request," Alden continued, voice even, "that the duel be conducted sequentially."
Vane's eyes narrowed. Selwyn's brows lifted a fraction. Umbridge inhaled sharply, already bracing for outrage.
Dumbledore regarded Alden with quiet interest. "Sequentially?"
"Yes, Headmaster." Alden met his gaze without hesitation. "One opponent at a time."
A pause.
"Starting," Alden added mildly, "with the weakest."
The word landed like a dropped glass.
McGonagall's sharp intake of breath was audible in the silence that followed. Flitwick froze mid-step, eyes wide behind his spectacles. Sprout's eyebrows shot up, and Hagrid let out a low, disbelieving rumble that might have been a laugh—or might have been something else entirely.
Snape did not move.
But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Vane stepped forward at once. "This is insolent," she snapped. "You are a student addressing Ministry officials—"
"—who have already consented to an educational demonstration," Alden said, turning his head just enough to look at her. His tone remained perfectly courteous. "I am merely proposing a structure."
Selwyn studied him closely now, something sharp and assessing glinting in his eyes.
"And you presume," Selwyn said slowly, "to determine the order?"
Alden shrugged faintly.
"It makes no difference to me," he replied. "You may decide among yourselves. Or defer to the Headmaster. The outcome remains unchanged."
That did it.
Umbridge spluttered. "The arrogance—the sheer ego—"
Dumbledore raised a hand.
"Enough," he said quietly.
The word carried weight.
He turned to Alden. "You are asking, then, to duel the three inquisitors in succession."
"Yes."
"And you believe yourself capable of doing so within the established limits."
"Yes."
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, blue eyes searching, measuring—not power, but judgment. Whatever he found there, it seemed to satisfy him.
"Very well," he said at last. "The order will be determined shortly."
Alden inclined his head.
"Thank you, Headmaster."
With that, he turned.
Not abruptly. Not dismissively. Simply as though the matter were settled.
"I'll be back shortly," he added over his shoulder. "I should like to reconvene with my friends before the demonstration begins."
The word demonstration echoed faintly in the vastness of the Hall.
Alden began to walk toward the doors, footsteps unhurried, measured against the stone floor. He was halfway across the cleared space when Selwyn spoke.
"You mistake confidence for justification, Mr. Dreyse," Selwyn said coolly. "This posturing—this display—it borders on arrogance."
Alden did not stop.
He did not turn around.
He did not even slow his stride.
"I dueled one of the most feared Dark Lords in history," he said, voice carrying effortlessly through the Hall. "One that many in this room still refuse to name."
His footsteps continued, steady.
"I did so with only one other person present who has ever inspired genuine fear in that man."
The air seemed to tighten.
"What," Alden went on, almost thoughtfully, "are three Ministry officials against a Dark Lord?"
He reached the doors then, hand resting briefly on the cold iron handle.
Alden's fingers closed around the iron handle.
Cold seeped into his skin, grounding, familiar. The doors loomed before him—thick, ancient, bearing the weight of centuries of ceremony and spectacle. All he needed to do was pull.
He didn't.
Instead, he stilled.
The Great Hall seemed to sense it. The faint hum of wards, the soft shifting of robes, even the scrape of a boot somewhere behind him faded into something taut and waiting.
"You never answered my question," Alden said calmly.
He did not turn around.
The words were not accusatory. They were not raised. They spoke with the same measured precision he had used all evening, as though he were reminding a professor of an unanswered point in a lecture.
Silence answered him.
Alden tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the pause, then repeated the question—exactly as before. No embellishment. No added weight.
"Were those spells cast against Harry Potter," he asked," or against someone worse?"
The question hung in the air.
It did not echo. It did not fade.
It simply remained.
Behind him, no one spoke.
Selwyn did not deny it.
Vane did not object.
Umbridge did not explode, did not sneer, did not protest—not this time. She stood rigid, lips pressed together so tightly the color had drained from them, eyes fixed somewhere just over Alden's shoulder as though the stone wall beyond might offer refuge.
Even Dumbledore said nothing.
The silence deepened, growing heavier by the second, thick with everything that was not being said. No correction. No righteous outrage. No indignant insistence that the Ministry had been misunderstood.
Just avoidance.
Alden stood there, hand still resting on the handle, feeling the weight of it settle into the room like ash.
He did not need their answer anymore.
Their refusal was the answer.
In the vast, cleared heart of the Great Hall—empty of students, stripped of noise and narrative—the truth revealed itself in the only way it ever truly could: through what those in power could not bring themselves to say.
Alden remained where he was, unmoving, letting the silence do its work.
Alden did not turn around.
His hand remained on the iron handle, fingers relaxed now, not gripping—simply resting there, as though the door were no longer an exit but an anchor. The Great Hall stood behind him, vast and silent, every pair of eyes fixed on his back.
When he spoke again, his voice did not rise.
It didn't need to.
"You know," he said quietly, "I think that's the part that bothers me most."
No one interrupted him. No one dared.
"That you won't say it. Even now." He tilted his head slightly, as if listening for a response that never came. "Not in front of the Headmaster. Not with half the Hogwarts faculty standing here. Not with the most powerful wizard in the world watching you weigh every word."
He let out a slow breath.
"I was fifteen," Alden went on. "I am fifteen."
The words settled differently this time.
"I was a fourth-year student when I stood in a graveyard and dueled a Dark Lord—one whose name people twice my age still whisper, if they speak it at all. Wizards older than my grandparents died fighting him. Aurors. Scholars. Families." His voice remained steady, but something raw edged its way into it now, thin as a crack in glass. "And I survived."
No pride colored the statement.
Only fact.
"I nearly didn't," he added. "But I did."
Behind him, the Hall felt impossibly still.
"You knew," Alden said. "The Ministry knew. You examined my wand. You saw what was cast. You recognized the scale of it—even if you pretended not to." His fingers curled slightly against the handle. "And instead of acting—of hunting him, of preparing, of warning people—you chose something safer."
He paused.
"You chose me."
At last, he turned.
Not fully—just enough for his profile to be seen, pale against the stone, eyes sharp and tired and far too old for his face.
"You created the Lineage Integrity Authority," he said, the title spoken with clinical precision. "A distraction dressed up as diligence. A scapegoat with a polished name. A shield for cowardice."
Vane stiffened. Selwyn's expression did not change. Umbridge looked as though she might speak—and then didn't.
"They came after me," Alden continued, "not because I'm dangerous, but because it was easy." His gaze flicked briefly over the Ministry officials. "A leak about my heritage surfaces, and suddenly I'm no longer a student—I'm a problem to be managed."
He smiled faintly, without humor.
"Yes. I know who leaked it. No, I won't say who."
The admission rippled through the silence.
"You dug through my family's history," Alden went on, voice cool again, controlled. "You reduced centuries of belief, loyalty, and contradiction into a single word you could circle in red ink." His eyes hardened. "A distant relation to Gellert Grindelwald."
He let that name sit there.
"My family wasn't good," he said. "They weren't evil either. They believed in understanding. In choice. In not pretending the world is simpler than it is." His jaw tightened. "And when war came, the Ministry failed to protect them."
No one challenged him.
"The manor burned. My parents died. And I was raised by an old house-elf who stayed because no one else did." His voice did not break—but it came close enough to be felt. "That is what you chose to investigate."
He straightened, shoulders squaring.
"You're not hunting a Dark Lord," Alden said. "You're interrogating an orphan."
The words landed with quiet finality.
"And all because I understand magic in a way that makes you uncomfortable." His gaze lifted, sweeping the room. "Because I refuse to pretend that spells are born good or bad, rather than shaped by intent."
He gestured faintly with one hand.
"You teach children a healing charm and call it pure. Then you teach them the same spell can be used to endure pain—prolong it—and you still call it good." His eyes narrowed. "But when I acknowledge both uses openly, suddenly it's dark."
Alden shook his head once.
"That contradiction terrifies you."
His gaze returned to the Ministry officials, sharp as glass.
"So instead of facing the truth—that Voldemort returned, that he was stopped by a fifteen-year-old because you failed—you created this." His mouth curved, thin and bitter. "This performance."
He held their eyes, one by one.
"The Minister is a coward," Alden said simply.
No outrage followed. No denials. No righteous fury.
Only silence.
Alden turned back to the door then, hand tightening once more around the iron handle.
"I stood alone in that graveyard," he said quietly. "And I'm standing alone now."
The words were not a plea.
They were an indictment.
And when he finally pulled the door open, the sound it made echoed through the Great Hall like a verdict already passed.
The door did not close all at once.
It swung inward on its hinges with a low, echoing groan, and through the narrowing gap came sound—distant at first, then growing clearer. Footsteps. Voices. The restless murmur of students gathering outside the Great Hall, curiosity pulling them back like a tide.
Alden paused on the threshold.
His words had not been meant for them.
They were for the adults still standing in the cavernous space behind him—the ones who had watched, calculated, judged, and chosen silence.
"Mathius was right," Alden said quietly.
The sound of the hall beyond him softened, as though the stone itself leaned in to listen.
"Only those who stand at the summit of magic ever truly understand its loneliness."
He did not turn around. He didn't need to. He could feel their attention like pressure between his shoulders.
"For a long time," he went on, voice calm but stripped bare now, "I thought that loneliness came from power. From knowing spells others don't. From being able to do things that frighten people."
A beat.
"I don't think that anymore."
The faint scrape of a bench being moved outside echoed distantly. A laugh cut off mid-sentence.
Alden's hand tightened once on the door.
"It's lonely," he said, "because when people don't understand something, they don't try to." His voice remained steady, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it now. "They fear it. They judge it. They envy it. They worship it. Or they try to destroy it."
Every shade of the human heart, laid bare.
"And when that happens," Alden continued, "truth stops mattering."
He drew a slow breath.
"That's when power stops being the problem."
The door began to close.
The sound of the students outside faded as the gap narrowed, but the words that followed were softer still—spoken almost to himself, almost a whisper.
Almost.
"And that," Alden said, "is what's wrong with wizarding society."
The door shut.
The final echo rang through the Great Hall, long and low, settling into the stone like a promise—or a warning.
No one spoke.
Dumbledore remained very still.
Snape's gaze lingered on the closed doors, unreadable.
McGonagall felt something cold and sharp twist in her chest.
And the Ministry—standing beneath the weight of centuries and certainty—understood, far too late, that they had not merely cornered a powerful student.
They had just witnessed the moment a worldview was forged.