The noise ebbed more slowly this time.
Cheers faded into murmurs, murmurs into a low, restless hum as the reality of what had just happened settled over the Great Hall. Students shifted on their feet, excitement giving way to something more thoughtful. This wasn't a game anymore—not after the way the first duel had ended.
Vane was lifted from the floor without ceremony.
Two mediwitches moved briskly, efficiently, murmuring to one another in clipped, professional tones. They levitated her stretcher just high enough to clear the stone, guiding it toward the side doors. One of them cast a glance toward Alden—then quickly looked away, jaw tightening as though eye contact itself were dangerous.
Alden didn't watch them leave.
He stood where he was, wand lowered, breathing steady. The faint redness across his knuckles had already begun to fade.
Around him, the Hall adjusted.
Students who had been half-standing sat back down. Some leaned forward instead, elbows on knees, eyes narrowed in concentration. Bets stopped being shouted and started being reconsidered. The Wesley twins exchanged a look—not disappointed, but recalibrating. Ravenclaws whispered in tighter clusters, voices low, analytical. Even Gryffindor quieted, a collective sense dawning that whatever came next would not be so easily explained.
This wouldn't end the same way.
Dumbledore spoke briefly to McGonagall, then stepped aside, allowing the space to reset itself. The wards hummed, rebalancing, smoothing the air where magic had already been spent.
Across the floor, Acolyte Thorne moved.
He did not rush.
He did not glance at the students or the professors or the place where Vane had fallen. He stepped forward with measured precision, boots striking the stone softly, as though sound itself were something to be rationed. When he reached his mark, he stopped and waited, posture straight but not rigid.
No flourish.
No sneer.
No attempt to reclaim lost authority through volume.
Alden noticed immediately.
Thorne's wand hand was steady—no tremor, no unconscious tightening of the fingers. His breathing was slow, deliberate, the rise and fall of his chest even and controlled. Most telling of all, his gaze was not fixed on Alden's wand.
It was on Alden himself.
On the angle of his shoulders.The placement of his feet.The way his weight settled just slightly forward, balanced, ready.
This was not a man looking to overpower.
This was a man looking to understand.
For the first time since the duel had begun, Alden felt something shift—not pressure, not threat, but recognition. Thorne was not here to prove anything. He wasn't fighting for spectacle or righteousness or narrative.
He was fighting because he had been told to—and because he was trying to decide whether that order was worth obeying.
Alden lifted his wand in response, slow and deliberate, mirroring Thorne's care. Their eyes met across the warded floor.
No words were exchanged.
They didn't need to be.
Whatever this duel became, it would not be loud. It would not be simple. And it would not be decided by who struck first.
The Hall held its breath again—this time, not in anticipation of a spectacle, but in quiet respect for a contest that had finally become what it was always supposed to be.
Thorne did not strike.
The pause stretched long enough for a few first years near the front to glance at one another, puzzled.
"Is he waiting?" someone whispered.
"Maybe he forgot," another murmured hopefully.
Across the floor, Thorne shifted his weight instead, one foot sliding back half an inch, body angling slightly away from Alden. His wand stayed level, not pointed—ready without being aggressive. He took a step to the side, then another, eyes tracking the space between them rather than Alden's hands.
He was mapping the floor.
Alden saw it immediately.
Thorne wasn't advancing. He was claiming angles—testing sightlines, gauging distance, noting how the light from the enchanted ceiling fell across the stone. When Alden adjusted his stance, Thorne adjusted too, keeping the same offset, never quite offering a straight line.
"He's not attacking," a second-year whispered, disappointed.
"No," said a sixth-year Ravenclaw softly. "He's thinking."
The realization rippled outward.
Alden lifted his wand—not sharply, not in challenge—and cast a clean, unadorned Protego. The shield formed with a familiar shimmer, textbook-perfect. No distortion. No shadow. Nothing to unsettle the room.
Several students blinked.
"That's it?" someone muttered.
Alden felt Thorne's gaze flick to the shield, then back to Alden's posture. The message was clear enough: Show me how you solve problems.
They began to move.
Not circling, exactly—more like two pieces on a board adjusting to one another's presence. Thorne stepped near a raised seam in the stone where the floor had been reshaped, positioning himself so the light fell behind Alden instead of him. Alden countered by shifting a pace to the right, keeping his footing even, his center of gravity loose.
From the Slytherin section, the chatter died entirely.
They were watching hands now. Feet. Timing.
"This isn't a brawl," Theo murmured under his breath, eyes sharp.
"No," Daphne agreed quietly. "It's a duel."
Thorne made the first move without casting.
He flicked his wand toward the floor—not to strike, but to mark space—and Alden felt the magic ripple as the stone beneath his feet subtly changed texture, slickening just enough to punish careless movement.
Alden responded by stepping into it, weight settling, boots finding traction where there shouldn't have been any.
A few older students hissed under their breath in appreciation.
"Did you see that?" whispered a Ravenclaw prefect. "He didn't counter the spell—he adapted to it."
Hermione leaned forward, eyes wide behind her hair. This didn't look anything like the duels she'd studied. There was no shouting, no flurry of spells. Just intention layered atop intention.
"This is closer to a real fight," she murmured. "Vane never stood a chance."
Ron frowned. "It's boring."
Harry didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Alden's shoulders, the way they remained loose, ready, as though he were conserving something precious.
Thorne tested him at last with a quick Impedimenta, angled low and deliberately underpowered.
Alden's Protego caught it cleanly, the spell dispersing with a soft shimmer.
No counterattack followed.
Instead, Alden tilted his head slightly, watching Thorne's reaction.
Thorne nodded once—to himself.
Across the Hall, Ravenclaws leaned in further, already murmuring comparisons, mapping strategies aloud. Slytherins remained silent, intent. The younger students shifted, uncertain, beginning to sense that they were missing something important.
This duel wasn't loud enough for them yet.
But for those who knew what they were watching, it had already become clear:
This wasn't about who hit harder.
It was about who understood the board first.
Thorne moved first.
Not forward—across.
His wand snapped once, low and sharp, and the spell skidded along the floor rather than rising toward Alden's chest. A pulse of magic rippled through the stone, and the ground beneath Alden's left foot resisted him suddenly, as though the air itself had thickened.
"Impedimenta?" a first-year whispered, confused. "Why the floor?"
"It's not for him," came a quiet reply from somewhere behind them. "It's for where he will be."
Thorne didn't wait to see the effect. He followed the slowing charm instantly, twisting his wrist and flicking his wand toward a chunk of stone torn loose earlier by the reshaping of the Hall. The fragment shuddered, then snapped into motion—transfigured mid-flight into a jagged wedge, spinning end over end toward Alden's right.
Two spells. Two vectors. Neither aimed directly at him.
Alden swore softly under his breath.
He moved.
The slowed footing caught him half a beat longer than he liked, forcing him to shift his weight awkwardly. The stone wedge screamed past where his ribs had been a moment earlier and shattered against the wards with a sharp crack.
"Did you see that?" whispered a seventh-year Ravenclaw, eyes alight. "He's herding him."
"Cornering without closing," McGonagall murmured, lips tight with interest.
Thorne pressed the advantage—not with power, but with placement. Another Impedimenta rippled across the floor, this one angled to intersect Alden's escape path. A flick toward the air sent a burst of transfigured debris upward, not to strike, but to obscure—dust and fragments blooming just enough to blur depth and distance.
Misdirection.
Alden felt irritation spark sharply and brightly.
Good, he thought. Annoy me.
He snapped his wand sideways and cast Aresto Momentum—not at Thorne, but at the debris cloud. The fragments slowed abruptly, momentum bleeding away until they hung in the air like a suspended constellation.
The Hall collectively leaned forward.
Thorne didn't hesitate. He shifted again, already casting, trying to break through Alden's focus—
"Finite Absolutum."
Alden's voice was calm, precise.
The magic unraveled—not violently, but cleanly. The suspended debris dropped harmlessly to the floor. Thorne's follow-up spell fizzled mid-cast, the rhythm of his magic interrupted just long enough to matter.
"That's intentional disruption," Flitwick breathed. "He's not countering—he's desynchronizing."
Alden advanced two steps, boots light, footwork tight now, no wasted movement. His posture changed—shoulders lower, stance narrower, attention sharpened. For the first time since the duel began, he wasn't simply observing.
He was engaged.
Thorne met him halfway, adapting quickly, sending another spell skimming along the floor to force Alden off-balance while angling himself toward the light, trying to put glare in Alden's eyes.
They moved in tandem, spells weaving between them, intersecting and collapsing in ways that looked almost random to the untrained eye.
"This one's boring," a first-year whispered, restless.
"It's not," an older student replied under their breath. "You just don't know enough yet."
Alden sidestepped a slowing charm by inches, redirected a transfigured shard with a twist of his wrist, then pivoted sharply as Thorne tried to box him in again. Their magic brushed, clashed, slid past one another—neither overwhelming, neither conceding.
Across the Hall, Snape's gaze narrowed.
Alden's expression had changed.
The calm was still there—but beneath it now ran focus, irritation, interest. Thorne wasn't a problem to be erased.
He was a puzzle.
It happened in a blink.
Alden pivoted to avoid another low, skidding Impedimenta—felt his boot strike stone that wasn't quite there anymore—and his balance slipped. Not badly. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Enough to matter.
His heel slid. His weight shifted wrong. His wand arm dipped half an inch as he corrected, shoulders turning a fraction too late.
To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing.
To Thorne, it was everything.
The opening was clean.
Alden's guard was half a beat late. His Protego hadn't reformed. His centerline was exposed—chest, wand arm, momentum against him. A well-timed Stupefy would have ended it. Even a hard Expelliarmus, angled correctly, could have sent Alden's wand spinning across the floor.
Several professors inhaled sharply.
Snape's eyes flicked, razor-fast.
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh—" Ron breathed.
Thorne saw it.
His wand lifted instinctively, spell already forming on his lips—
—and then his eyes flicked sideways.
Just once.
To Selwyn.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly.
It was instinct. Conditioning. The reflex of someone who had learned, over the years, to look for approval before acting decisively. To check the room. To remember who was watching.
That heartbeat stretched.
The spell faltered.
Alden recovered.
He planted his foot, twisted smoothly back into balance, wand snapping up just as the moment vanished. The opening closed as cleanly as it had appeared.
A murmur rippled through the Hall—low, confused, uncertain.
"Why didn't he take it?" a sixth-year whispered.
"He had him," someone else said.
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line.
Dumbledore said nothing, but his gaze shifted—not to Alden, but to Thorne.
Alden noticed.
Not immediately. He finished the movement first, reset his stance, and felt the magic settle back into alignment. Then his eyes met Thorne's—and something changed.
Understanding flickered there.
You saw it.
Thorne's jaw tightened. His wand hand steadied again, but the rhythm was gone now, just slightly off, like a musician who had missed a cue and knew it.
That hesitation cost him.
Alden didn't press the advantage right away. He watched instead, irritation cooling into something sharper, more precise. Thorne wasn't weak.
He was conflicted.
And that, Alden realized, was far more dangerous to the man holding the wand than to the one facing him.
The duel resumed—but it had shifted.
Not in volume. Not in spectacle.
In certainty.
Alden adjusted his footing, tightened his focus, and began to move again—this time with purpose.
Because now he knew exactly where the fault line was.
And Thorne knew it too.
Alden moved.
Not abruptly—not in anger—but with decision.
His wand snapped up, and the first Bombarda tore free, not aimed at Thorne's chest but at the stone a pace to his left. The blast cracked the floor, force blooming outward in a controlled burst that sent shards skittering and forced Thorne to shift.
Before the dust could settle, Alden followed with a sharp, clean—
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell streaked low and fast, meant to catch Thorne mid-step rather than square-on. Thorne reacted instantly, twisting aside, wand flashing as he brought up a shield. The disarming charm struck it and slid off in a wash of red light.
"Good," murmured Flitwick from the sidelines, almost to himself.
Alden didn't pause.
He flicked his wand again, this time murmuring a Glacius—not the dramatic, sweeping kind, but a precise, minor charm that kissed the air around Thorne's boots. Frost crept across the stone in a thin, treacherous sheet, stealing friction without warning.
Thorne swore under his breath and skidded, catching himself just in time as he reinforced his shield, magic flaring brighter now, more defensive than before.
To the younger students, it looked chaotic—spells flashing, stone cracking, ice spreading—but the older ones leaned forward, eyes tracking patterns.
"He's layering pressure," a seventh-year whispered. "Forcing reactions."
"He's not trying to hit him," another replied. "He's trying to move him."
Alden saw the shield go up and surged forward.
Not recklessly—efficiently.
The distance between them vanished in three quick strides, boots finding purchase between cracks and frost with unnerving accuracy. Thorne's eyes widened just a fraction as he realized what Alden was doing—closing the gap while the shield was still angled outward, tuned for impact, not proximity.
Alden's spells weren't meant to break the defense.
They were meant to buy time.
Thorne adjusted, shield tightening, wand already shifting for a counter—but Alden was inside his casting range now, presence sudden and undeniable. Their magic brushed, crackled, pressed close enough that the wards hummed in response.
For the first time, Thorne had to step back.
Not because he was weaker.
Because Alden had stopped waiting.
Across the Hall, the students felt it—the shift from observation to engagement, from theory to motion. Hermione's breath caught. Harry leaned forward without realizing it. Even Ron had gone quiet.
Alden's expression was focused now, eyes sharp, jaw set—not cold, not angry, but intent.
This wasn'ta spectacle.
This was work.
And as Thorne dug in, shield flaring brighter under the strain, it became clear to everyone watching that Alden Dreyse had decided to end this duel—not with overwhelming force, but by taking control of the space itself.
Thorne felt it before he saw it.
The pressure.
Alden was too close now—inside the comfortable distance where shields could be maintained and counters prepared. Thorne's shield flared again as another fragment of stone struck and shattered harmlessly against it, the magic holding, but straining. He adjusted his stance, breath steadying, mind racing.
I need space.
He dropped the shield.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to cast—
Light exploded.
"Lumos!"
It wasn't the gentle glow of a classroom charm. It was sudden and sharp, a burst of white brilliance that filled Thorne's vision all at once, searing afterimages into his eyes. The world vanished in a wash of glare, edges gone, depth meaningless.
A few students cried out in surprise.
Thorne swore, instinctively raising his arm, vision swimming—
"Expelliarmus!"
The disarming charm struck cleanly.
There was a sharp, ringing crack as Thorne's wand flew from his hand, spinning end over end through the air before striking the stone floor. It bounced once. Twice. Teetered.
Then came to rest.
The sound echoed.
Silence followed it—heavy, complete.
When Thorne's vision cleared, Alden was standing a few paces away, wand leveled steadily at his chest, posture relaxed but unyielding. No flourish. No triumph. Just certainty.
Thorne stared at the wand on the floor, then slowly lifted his hands, breath coming a little faster now.
He didn't look angry.
He looked… relieved.
Across the Hall, the realization spread in a quiet wave.
"That was—" someone began.
"—brilliant," finished another, hushed.
Hermione exhaled, awe creeping into her expression. "He baited him into dropping the shield."
Harry swallowed. Ron just stared.
Dumbledore stepped forward before the noise could rise again.
"A clear disarmament," he said calmly. "The duel is concluded."
Alden lowered his wand immediately.
Thorne met his eyes and inclined his head—small, sincere.
"Thank you," Thorne said quietly. Not to the room. To Alden.
Alden nodded once in return.
And for the second time that day, the Great Hall understood something new:
Alden Dreyse didn't win because he was stronger.
He won because he knew exactly when the fight was already over.