The Great Hall thrummed like a living heart.
Five hundred voices tangled in excitement, the sound bouncing off enchanted rafters alive with bats and floating candles. Pumpkins hovered above the long tables, carved with cruelly cheerful grins; gold and black cloth shimmered on every surface. The Goblet of Fire burned bright at the far end, a column of shifting blue flame that threw the whole hall in restless light.
Students leaned forward on benches, whispering with the wild energy of gamblers waiting for dice to fall. The age line still gleamed faintly around the Goblet, a perfect circle of gold pressed into stoneuntouched, unbroken.
"They're saying Dumbledore will announce the champions after dessert," a Ravenclaw told her friend, breathless." And if it's Cedric, we'll never hear the end of it," groaned another."At least he's good-looking," someone muttered, to laughter.
At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George were in rare silence, faces still slightly pink from Madam Pomfrey's anti-beard tonic.
"Heard Warrington got in early this morning," George said darkly."If a Slytherin wins, we're transferring schools," Fred replied."I'd like to see Dreyse try," Seamus put in. "He'd probably lecture the Goblet about morality first.""He wouldn't," Hermione said sharply. "He's not like the rest of them.""You're defending him now?" Ron blinked."I'm saying he's clever enough not risk expulsion."Harry, quiet between them, only glanced toward the Goblet, the fire reflected in his glasses. "Clever," he said under his breath, "doesn't mean safe."
The Hufflepuffs nearby were already chanting "Diggory! Diggory!" between mouthfuls of roasted potatoes, while the Durmstrang students at the staff end of the hall sat in tight, silent formationposture perfect, eyes locked on the Goblet as if daring it to blink first.
The Beauxbatons table glittered with silk and nervous perfume. Several of their girls had folded hands, whispering prayers in French, while Madame Maxime presided like a jeweled mountain.
At the head table, Dumbledore spoke in a low tone with Karkaroff, who gestured often, sharp and impatient, while Madame Maxime nodded to some unseen rhythm of her own.McGonagall hovered nearby, lips thin with worry, while Snape sat unnaturally still, his expression unreadable except for the faint curl of a knowing smirk. Flitwick jotted notes between bites of tart, his eyes darting back to the Goblet with academic hunger.
Every few moments, a small burst of sparks would leap from the flamered, violet, or whiteand the crowd would lean forward, thinking perhaps this was it. But the Goblet always settled, its blue calm returning as if amused by their impatience.
The energy in the room built like pressure before a storm. Even the portraits seemed unable to sit still; some leaned halfway out of their frames, murmuring gossip to their neighbors. The air itself smelled of excitement and the faint iron tang of spellwork.
Down at the Slytherin table, the tension was sharper. Draco Malfoy kept glancing toward the doors, his heel bouncing restlessly beneath the table. Theo Nott sat beside him, chin in hand, watching him with the slow disapproval of someone already tired of what hadn't happened yet. Daphne Greengrass, poised as ever, was twirling her goblet idly, eyes flicking between the flame and Draco's nervous reflection in it.
"You'd think they were choosing the next Minister," Theo muttered."They might as well be," Draco said, grinning faintly. "Whoever gets picked for Hogwarts will remember their name forever.""Or their funeral," Theo said dryly."Morbid.""Practical."Daphne smirked, not looking at either. "I just hope whoever it is can do better than growing a beard."Draco laughed despite himself. "Well, no one's seen Dreyse since yesterday. Maybe he's still down there whispering love poems to the Age Line."
Theo rolled his eyes. "He's probably in the library, trying to understand the cup. Knowing him, he'll marry it before he enters it."
"And still outthink it," Daphne said lightly, but her tone carried an edge of something elseadmiration, maybe, or warning.
The flame flared suddenly, tall and brilliant, casting every face in blue and silver. The hall fell quiet in instinctive awe. Then the Goblet calmed again, and noise returned tenfold: whispers, laughter, cheers for nothing in particular.
"It's teasing us," Seamus said from across the hall."No," Hermione replied softly, more to herself than anyone. "It's choosing."
Dumbledore stood briefly, raising a hand for quiet. "Patience," he said, his voice echoing easily through the chamber. "The Goblet will speak when it is ready."
He sat again, his gaze drifting briefly toward the doorsas though sensing something that hadn't yet arrived.
At the Slytherin table, Theo noticed it too. Draco suddenly went still, his smirk fading as he looked over his shoulder.
"What?" Theo asked."Nothing," Draco said, though his grin returned, slow and sly. "Just a feeling."
Somewhere far off in the castle, a bell tolled five. The feast was minutes away. And though no one knew it yet, the next name the Goblet would remember was already walking toward it.
The noise of the Great Hall had reached a fever pitch. Silverware clattered, laughter ricocheted from wall to wall, the buzz of hundreds of voices rising into a bright, careless roar. The Goblet's flame threw ribbons of blue light across faces and banners, and every house seemed determined to be louder than the next.
The Feast hadn't even begun, but the air was already thick with the heat of speculation.
"It'll be Diggory, I'm telling you!""No, Krum, obviously Krum!""Beauxbatons will winthey're all half-veela!"
It was a wave of excitement so total that no one noticed when the great oak doors at the back began to move.
The hinges groaned softly. A slice of gold light spilled through the gap. And then, through the chatter and candlelight, a figure stepped in.
At first, only the nearest students turnedthen whispers started rippling like wind through tall grass.
"Is that?""Dreyse.""He's actually here. Look! k""He's going toward the front!"
The name passed from table to table, spreading faster than sound could fade.
Alden Dreyse walked with measured calm, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His silver-white hair caught the firelight, each strand glinting like drawn wire. His Slytherin uniform was immaculate, collar straight, tie perfectly knotted; his robe fell around him like shadow cut from silk.
There was no hurry in his strideonly purpose, deliberate and unbroken. The nearer he drew to the center aisle, the quieter the hall became.
From the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy froze mid-sentence, his grin fading to a stunned half-laugh.
"He's nothe can't actually."
Theo Nott leaned forward, voice low.
"He can. And he will."
Draco's jaw tightened, torn between awe and panic.
"He's mad.""He's Dreyse," Theo said simply.
Alden passed their table without a glance. The blue of the Goblet shimmered across his face, ghosting his expression with something near serenityand, beneath it, a glint that might have been amusement.
Further down the hall, conversations stuttered to silence as heads turned. The Ravenclaws whispered theories; the Hufflepuffs gawked openly; the Beauxbatons girls exchanged uncertain looks. Even the Durmstrang students sat straighter, hands resting on the hilts of their wands.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry squinted through the floating candles.
"It's h,m," said Ron. "Dreyse?" said Ron. "What's he?""He's walking toward the Goblet," Hermione said, voice thin."He wouldn't," Ron breathed."He would," Hermione whispered.
Fred and George leaned forward, nearly standing.
"If he pulls this off," George murmured, "I'll start calling him sir.""If he explodes," Fred said, "I'm keeping his books."
Laughter flickered and died again as Alden passed the Ravenclaw table. The sound of his shoes on stone carried through the hall, a steady cadence cutting through the fading noise.
At the staff table, McGonagall straightened. Flitwick's quill paused midair . Madame Maxime whispered something to Karkaroff, who tilted his head sharply, eyes narrowing. And at the center, Dumbledore watched, expression unreadable, fingertips steepled lightly under his chin.
The Goblet's flame shifted as Alden approachedblue giving way to a faint streak of white, like breath caught in glass. The air itself felt heavier, charged.
Someone whispered, "He's smiling," and they were right. There was a slight grin, the ghost of one, hovering at the corner of his mouth. Not arrogance. Understanding.
By the time he reached the open space before the Goblet, the hall had fallen almost silent. Only the flame moved, its light dancing up the marble columns, flickering over Alden's face.
Theo's voice carried quietly from the Slytherin table.
"He's not going to stop."
Draco swallowed, eyes wide.
"He's going to break it."
Alden stopped at the edge of the Age Lineits gold shimmer faint in the air, whispering faintly like a harp string. The light met his shoes, trembling once as if testing him.
He regarded it for a long moment, head tilted slightly. Then he reached into his sleeve. The gesture was slow, graceful, and the faintest sound of metal against fabric followedthe whisper of his wand being drawn.
"Oh, Merlin," Draco muttered, half rising."Sit down," Theo said, but his voice wasn't steady.
Across the hall, McGonagall half-rose from her chair. Flitwick's quill fell from his hand. The entire hall leaned forward as one.
The hum of the hall blurred into a single note, voices, breath, the rustle of robes all folding into one indistinct drone behind him. None of it mattered.
The only thing that lived in Alden's world now was the Goblet and the soft golden line that separated him from it.
He stood at the edge of the circle, the blue fire reflected in his eyes. The flame swayed gently, almost curious, as if aware that the boy standing before it was not merely watching.
He could feel every rune woven into Dumbledore's barrier, each one humming like a taut string beneath the floor. A perfect construct, balanced, old, confident in its law. He admired it for that. For believing in its own permanence.
Laws are not immortal, he thought. They're simply well-practiced lies.
He crouched slightly, fingertips brushing the cold marble just before the Age Line. It pulsed faintly under hishearta a warm heartbeat against his skin.
In the reflection of the Goblet's flame, he saw himself: pale hair glinting silver, green-grey eyes steady, calm. The stillness of his expression was almost human but not quite.
His thumb ran idly along the wand hidden in his sleeve. A bony wood, veins of silvered green, t caught the Goblet's light like a blade.
Power isn't noise, he reminded himself. Its definition.
He did not needto prove anything to them, the whispers, the stares, the fear that had followed his name since his first year. This wasn't about the crowd, or even the tournament. It was about truth. About showing the world that intent ruled over every supposed boundary.
And maybe he allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction, it was also about showing Dumbledore what his generation had forgotten.
He lifted his gaze to the head table. The old wizard's face was calm, eyes unreadable, but Alden thought he saw the faintest twitch of curiosity, a memory stirring behind the glass of age.
You've seen this before, Alden thought. Haven't you? I wonder if the name still means anything to you.
The thought curled in his mind, sharp and quiet. Lex Breaker.The forbidden discipline of thlaw shapes the theorists who didn't undo magic but rewrote its grammar. Grindelwald's philosophy made manifest: not destruction, but redefinition. Convince the law that it has already been fulfilled.
Alden exhaled slowly. The breath misted faintly in the charged air.
He brought his wand up, holding it loosely between his fingers, the motion elegant, effortless. The crowd's murmur pressed faintly around him, distant and harmless. The only sound that mattered now was the thrum of power beneath the floor, the rhythm he'd been listening to since dawn.
His lips parted.
"Aeternum Fractura."
The words were not shouted, not forced, merely stated, as if the world had already agreed.
The wand drew a single diagonal slash through the air. The movement was slow, unbroken, the sound of breath leaving him in perfect sync with the gesture.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then
The Age Line fractured.
It didn't explode; it unraveled. The gold shimmer shivered like water catching sunlight, then bent inward, twisting its own pattern until the geometry of it failed. Light rippled outward in concentric waves, gold to white, white to silver, silver fading to ash.
The circle broke into a thousand fragments, hanging weightless in the air around him. Each one pulsed once, like a fading star, then drifted upward, dissolving into dust.
The hum ceased. The law was gone.
Alden lowered his wand. The glow of the Goblet washed across his face, pale and holy. He could feel the world adjusting, the ward's absence rippling through the magic of the hall like a quiet gasp.
He allowed himself a small, private smile, a secret thing no one had earned the right to see. Not triumph.Recognition.
So that's it, he thought. The rule believed I'd met its condition hatthatwas old enough, worthy enough, truthful enough. I simply agreed with it.
He glanced again toward Dumbledore.
For the briefest instant, the headmaster's expression shifted, narrowing of the eyes, a flicker of remembrance, maybe even respect.
Yes, Alden mused, you remember this kind of magic. You built your own mirror once, didn't you? You and the man you couldn't kill in theory or thought.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Consider this, Headmaster, he thought. Even your walls can learn to doubt.
He turned his attention back to the Goblet. The blue-white flame leaned toward him now, its surface flickering like breath, as though the artifact itself was waiting.
The air smelled faintly of iron and frost, the scent of old magic made new.
This is what truth feels like, he told himself. Not power. Precision.
He took one step forward, into the hollow where the golden circle had been, and the floor did not resist. The boundary was gone, convinced it had already done its duty.
And as the Goblet's flame reached higher, light blooming across his face, Alden thought only one thing:
If eternity can fracture once, it can do so again.
The fragments of the shattered ward were still drifting upward like motes of dying sunlight. Every sound had vanished from the Great Hall. Even the Goblet's flame had quietedits long tongue of blue,lue bending slightly toward him, waiting.
Alden exhaled once. Calm. Measure red. He drew a folded square of parchment from inside his robe. The edges were ink-black, faintly luminescent; thin veins of runic script glimmered for a heartbeat and then hid themselves again.
He had written the name hours ago, alone in the dungeons, and laced it with the simplest of promises: Only I may answer when called. It was not domination, nor deceit. Merely a statement of fact, sealed with intentthe language the Goblet understood best.
He held the slip between two fingers, studying it in the cold light. The ink caught silver; his own handwriting looked foreign to him, as though some older self had signed it.
There are thousands of spells to force the world, he thought. Only a few to persuade it.
He felt the hum of the paper, the living pulse of his magic threaded through the fibers. It was steady. Certain.
Raising his eyes, he looked once more to the head table. Dumbledore's face was unreadable, carved from calm and shadow, but Alden saw the faint gleam behind the spectaclesa scholar's curiosity, tempered with something heavier. Recognition again. Memory.
You see it, don't you? Alden thought. A reflection of another boy who once believed the law could be rewritten.
The grin returnedsmall, sharp, and entirely unrepentant.
He stepped forward, the echo of his shoes loud in the enormous quiet. The Goblet's blue light poured over him, swallowing the green of his robes until he looked sculpted from frost and shadow.
He extended the parchment over the rim of fla me. The heat curled the edges instantly, but the letters did not burn. For a moment, the fire resisted, tasting the magic upon the paper; then, with a slow, deliberate pull, it accepted.
A rush of light flared for acceptance, gold for binding, then deepening into that same impossible blue. The hall seemed to breathe.
Alden straightened, hand lowering to his side. He looked up, voice low but clear enough to reach every corner. It was not a shout. It was a pronouncement.
"Alden Dreyse of Slytherin."His tone was even, unhurried."Enters the selection."
The words hung there, perfectly measured, perfectly still.
The Goblet's flame answered with one long surge of blue-white fire that climbed high enough to touch the rafters before settling again, as if sealing a pact it could not undo.
Alden watched it, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. For an instant, the world felt weightless, held between heartbeat and history.
So be it, he thought. Let the law remember my name.
For a breath, there was nothing. The parchment vanished into the Goblet, the blue-white flame inhaledand the Great Hall hung in the stillness between heartbeats.
Then the cup exhaled.
A pillar of light shot toward the rafters, scattering bats, washing every face in cold brilliance. The wardless air rang like a bell. And before the last echo faded, sound returned all at oncewild, human, thunderous.
Slytherin erupted.
Draco was the first on his feet, eyes alight.
"He did it! He actually did it!"
He slammed both hands against the table; Crabbe and Goyle followed, pounding in rhythm. Tankards toppled. Shouts became chants.
"Dreyse! Dreyse! Dreyse!"
Older students joined inWarrington, Montague, the entire end of the table rising to their feet, fists drumming against oak. The green banners overhead trembled from the force.
Across the hall, disbelief rippled likea shockwave meeting water.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry stared, mouth open.
"Hehe crossed it. The Goblet took it!"
Ron grabbed his shoulder, half-laughing, half-horrified.
"That's not possibleno one's supposed to. How did he?"
Hermione, pale, whispered,
"It wasn't power. He convinced it."Her eyes tracked Alden's calm figure by the cup. "He rewrote the rule."
Fred and George were shouting over each other.
"That's not fair.r""It's brilliant. nt""He's a luna.tic" He's a legend!"
The Ravenclaws broke into a volley of incredulous laughter, arguing about arithmantic impossibility; the Hufflepuffs clapped despite themselves, swept up in noise and disbelief. Even the Beauxbatons girls were on their feet, hands pressed to their mouths, and the Durmstrang contingent pounded the table once, a soldier's salute to audacity.
Through it all, Alden didn't move. The fire washed over his face like a benediction; the noise barely reached him.
At the staff table, the order faltered.
McGonagall rose halfway from her chair, voice caught between shock and reprimand. Flitwick had both hands braced on the table, eyes wide behind his spectacles . Madame Maxime's jeweled rings clenched white; Karkaroff whispered a curse under his breath.
And SnapeSnape sat perfectly still, only one dark brow lifting, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. Pride, disguised as disdain. A single slow clap that no one heard over the roar.
At the center, Dumbledore had not moved.
The firelight carved deep lines across his face, catching the glint of his glasses. He watched the boy standing before the Gobletthe silver hair, the calm posture, the quiet certaintyand the years fell away.
He remembered another hall, another roar. A younger man with gold hair and the same unflinching composure. The same spell whispered into the world with perfect confidence.Aeternum Fractura.
The sound of it came back to him as a chord struck in memory. He had argued against its creation once. He had watched it break a city gate that was never meant to open.
Now it stood before him againnot the spell, but the echo of its maker. Gellert's arrogance. Gellert's brilliance. And something new beneath itself-containment, not conquest.
He felt the old ache in his chestthe line between admiration and dread.
History never repeats, he thought, it only rephrases.
A cheer exploded, snapping him back to the present. The entire Slytherin table was on its feet, waving goblets and scarves. The chant rolled like thunder:
"Sly-ther-in! Sly-ther-in!"
Alden turned slightly toward the sound, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable . The blue light crowned him, pale and cold, and for one unguarded instant, not Dumbledore saw not a child, nor a prodigy, but a question made fleshone the world would have to answer.
Snape leaned toward him at last, voice low, edged with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"Remarkable control, Headmaster."
Dumbledore did not look away from Alden.
"Control," he murmured, "is never the question, Severus. It is what one chooses to hold still."
The noise rose againcheers, laughter, the rattle of cutleryand drowned the rest.
Alden Dreyse stood unmoving before the Goblet, the flame's reflection steady in his eyes. Behind him, Hogwarts celebrated the impossible. Before him, the fire whispered like a promise.
And in that blur of noise and light, the Headmaster could not decide whether he had just witnessed the birth of hopeor the return of history.