The roar still shook the beams when Alden turned away from the Goblet. The light behind him faded from silver to blue, as if it, too, exhaled.
He walked back through the aisle the way he'd come, every step measured, every sound in the Hall bending around him. The Great Hall was alivelaughter, clapping, the sharp clang of goblets against platesbut he moved through it as though none of it reached him.
Students leaned out from benches as he passed, craning for a closer look.
"That's Dreyse broke Dumbledore's ward."
"He didn't even look tired."
"Did you see that light?"
Their voices blurred into something distant, like wind behind glass. The only thing that mattered was the rhythm of his strideheel, toe, heel, steady, calm.
When he reached the Slytherin table, it erupted all over again. Benches scraped, tankards slammed, voices collided into a single chant.
"Dreyse! Dreyse! Dreyse!"
Draco Malfoy was already standing on the bench, both hands in the air, grin stretched wide.
"Didn't I tell you!" he shouted over the din, voice cracking with glee. "Didn't I say he'd do it?!"
Crabbe and Goyle were pounding the table so hard the dishes bounced. Warrington, Nott, and a half-dozen older Slytherins reached across to grab Alden's shoulders, shaking him, laughing, shouting his name as though it had become a banner.
He endured it with a faint, polite smileacknowledging a victory he hadn't asked for but refused to deny . When he sat, the space around him seemed to bend into order. The shouting dimmed by instinct, settling into admiration instead of frenzy.
Theo Nott leaned in, dark eyes sharp behind his calm.
"You've just redefined impossible," he said quietly.
Alden's knife clicked softly against his plate. "Impossible's just an untested assumption."
Theo huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh.
"You know, some of us are trying to make it through the year without giving Dumbledore an aneurysm."
A faint flicker of humor touched Alden's mouth. "He's had practice."
Across from them, Daphne Greengrass propped her chin on one hand, eyes still shining.
"You make it look rehearsed," she said. "Like you'd planned it for months."
Alden didn't look up from cutting his bread.
"Preparation isn't arrogance. It's courtesy."
Draco slid back into his seat, still grinning, his pale hair wild.
"Courtesy? You shattered a Headmaster's spell in front of three schools, Dreyse. The way they'll write about thisMerlin, you'll be in history books."
"History misquotes," Alden said. "But perhaps that's its charm."
Draco laughed, elbowing Pansy beside him.
"Hear that? 'History misquotes.' He talks like he's already in one!"
The laughter rippled around the table, but Theo's gaze stayed on Alden. He felt the stillness under the calm, the faint pulse of thought behind the eyes. Even surrounded by noise, Alden wasn't basking. He was calculating.
"So what now?" Theo asked softly, so only he could hear."Now?" Alden's tone was almost detached. "We eat. We wait. We see what the Goblet remembers."
Theo frowned. "You really think it'll"
"It has to," Alden murmured, gaze flicking toward the flame. "I told it the truth."
Daphne tilted her head. "And what truth was that?"
Alden's fork paused mid-air. He looked up, eyes catching the faint blue light across the hall.
"That I'm exactly what it's looking for."
A silence spread across their section of the tablenot from disbelief, but awe. Even Draco didn't have a comeback for that.
The clamor of the Hall rolled onBeauxbatons' laughter, Durmstrang's cheers, the shuffle of teachers trying to restore orderbut at the center of it, Alden Dreyse sat perfectly still, composed as stone, silver hair catching every flicker of firelight.
He looked less like a boy who'd defied the rules of magic and more like someone who'd never believed they existed.
And when he finally lifted his goblet to his lips, it was with the smallest nodan unspoken toast to the law he'd just rewritten.
The roar of the hall still hung like smoke, coiling under the enchanted ceiling. The noise had ebbed into something steadier now, not quite chaos, not quite order. Laughter, whispers, and the clatter of silverware stitched together like an uneven heartbeat.
At the head of the hall, Professor McGonagall had not touched her plate. Her fingers were steepled tightly in front of her mouth, eyes fixed on the boy who sat among the Slytherins perfectly calm, cutting his food as though nothing had happened. The glow of the Goblet still burned across his hair, turning it to living frost.
She lowered her hands at last, voice low but edged.
"Albus… he's fourteen."
Dumbledore, seated beside her, looked the picture of serenity, one hand curled around his goblet, the other resting lightly on the arm of his chair. The candlelight painted fine lines across his face. His eyes, however, were far away, watching something older than the hall before them.
"Yes," he said softly. "And yet he spoke to that ward as though it owed him an apology."
McGonagall blinked, uncertain if she'd heard him right.
"You're admiring this? The boy shattered your enchantment, an enchantment you yourself declared unbreakable! He's not even of age, Albus. He's barely halfway through his education."
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Alden, the stillness, the composure, the strange authority in his every movement. When he finally spoke, it was not defensive, but thoughtful.
"There was a time," he said, "when certain minds believed laws of magic could be reasoned with. That if you spoke to them properly, ot with force, but with persuasion, the magic itself would yield. I once thought such arrogance belonged only to an older generation."
McGonagall's brows pinched together.
"You mean Grindelwald," she said quietly.
The name hung heavy between them. It was not spoken of often in this hall.
"The spell he used," Dumbledore continued, "Aeternum Fractura. A dangerous thing. It doesn't destroy a barrier, Minerva. It convinces it that its purpose has already been fulfilled. A lie wrapped so elegantly the truth forgets itself."
Her lips thinned.
"And you're telling me a child managed that? Without training? Without guidance?"
Dumbledore's gaze softened.
"Oh, I think he's had training. Not formal, perhaps, but guided by thought, by curiosity. The kind that walks too close to fire to understand its warmth."
She stared at him in disbelief.
"You sound impressed."
He finally looked at her, eyes weary.
"I am. And I am also afraid."
That quiet admission settled between them. Around them, the students' noise swelled again, aughter, forks scraping, the hum of gossip that would outlast the evening.
Snape, seated a few chairs away, leaned back just enough for his voice to reach them, smooth as oil.
"If it eases your mind, Minerva, the boy's control was near perfect. Not a trace of backlash. Most of your seventh-years can barely manage a Finite without singeing their eyebrows."
McGonagall turned on him, aghast.
"You approve?"
Snape's expression didn't change, but his dark eyes glittered faintly.
"I recognize talent when I see it. Ambition, precision, self-restraint. Qualities the other houses often confuse for danger."
"Because they are dangerous," she snapped.
Snape allowed himself a thin smile.
"So is brilliance."
Dumbledore's gaze returned to Alden. The boy was listening to Draco's chatter, answering with small, exact phrases, never raising his voice. The silver of his hair caught the light whenever he turned his head, an echo of another memory Dumbledore could not quite silence.
He spoke softly, almost to himself.
"The world once celebrated such minds before it feared them. The difference, I've learned, is in how they use the mirror."
McGonagall frowned.
"And what do you see when you look at him, Albus?"
Dumbledore's hand tightened slightly around his goblet. He didn't answer immediately, his eyes still on Alden, whose calm was almost theatrical in its perfection.
"A reflection," he said at last. "And reflections, Minerva… are never as harmless as they appear."
A hush rippled through the room just then. Dumbledore turned his head. The Goblet's flame had flickered again, thin sparks jumping from its rim. Students were beginning to notice.
He set his goblet down, voice dropping low.
"And now," he murmured, "we shall see what mirror it shows us next."
The feast dimmed into a murmur of glass and nerves. The golden plates shimmered once, and then, as if the castle itself had grown impatient, they vanishedfood and silverware clearing away with a sound like a held breath released.
Every conversation stilled . The Goblet's glow deepened from blue to cobalt, the light sharpening until the carved pumpkins looked hollow-eyed and spectral.
Dumbledore rose from his seat, his robe catching the light like a tide.
"The Goblet of Fire," he began, voice smooth and steady, "is nearly ready to make its decision. When your names are called, please step forward and join us in the chamber beyond."
A wave of whispers followed, but no one truly listened. All eyes had turned toward thGoblet'sts flame, swaying like something alive, restless, impatient.
Dumbledore lifted his wand. With a single sweep, every candle in the room went out except the ones trapped within the pumpkins. Darkness pooled between the tables. The Goblet now burned brighter than anything else in the worldits light white at the core, blue at the edges, like the color of breath in winter.
At the Slytherin table, Theo leaned slightly toward Alden.
"Do you think it'll take you?"
Alden's gaze stayed fixed on the flame, expression unreadable.
"It's not about taking," he murmured. "It's about acknowledgment."
Theo frowned but didn't press further. Draco, beside him, was fidgeting, bouncing a knee under the table.
"You've already outdone every student here," he whispered, voice half awe, half greed. "Imagine if .it"
"Shh," Daphne hissed, her eyes on the cup. "It's changing."
The Goblet's flame pulsed once. Then, with a low, resonant whoomph, it turned crimson.
A thousand breaths caught.
Sparks leapt upwardgold, then whiteand a single charred slip of parchment shot into the air, spinning slowly as it fell. Dumbledore's hand rose without haste, catching it mid-air . He turned the parchment toward the light, his voice filling the hall:
"The champion for Durmstrang…"
A pause, sharp and electric.
"…is Viktor Krum."
Applause eruptedhalf cheer, half recognition. The Durmstrang students slammed their goblets on the table in unison, a thunderous saluté. Karkaroff beamasike a man whose prophecy had come true, rising from his chair with hands outstretched.
"Bravo, Viktor! I knew you had it in you!"
Krum rose from the Slytherin table where he had been sitting, every movement unhurried. His eyes barely lifted as he walked up the central aisle, shoulders squared, expression stoic as ever. The firelight licked across his face, briefly catching on the faint scar near his temple.
Alden watched him pass the quiet confidence, the gravity of a professional athlete now wrapped in the solemnity of a student champion. There was respect in his gaze, but no envy. Only analysis.
Durmstrang breeds its pride into discipline, he thought. Hogwarts breeds it into noise.
Krum reached the dais, shook Dumbledore's hand once, and disappeared through the door behind the staff table.
The cheers trailed after him, fading as quickly as they had begun.
Silence fell againsharp, expectant.
The Goblet's light pulsed blue once more, then steadied. The flames whispered as if drawing breath. Every eye followed it.
A spark flaredthen another. The color shiftedred creeping through the base, brightening, boiling upward like blood through water.
Another burst.
A second piece of parchment spun out, edges smoldering faintly . Dumbledore caught it.
"The champion for Beauxbatons," he announced, "is Fleur Delacour."
It wasn't just applause this timeit was awe. Gasps followed the girl as she rose from her table, the firelight setting her hair ablaze in silver and gold. She moved like she was born for itevery step a rehearsed dance, every motion aware of the hundreds of eyes drawn to her.
Ron's jaw went slack. Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. The Beauxbatons students clapped, half with joy, half with heartbreak. A few had already started crying, their heads bowed over the tablecloth.
Fleur inclined her head toward Madame Maxime as she passed, elegance unbroken. The Goblet's glow followed heran almost reverent shift of lightuntil she vanished through the same doorway Krum had taken.
Silence reclaimed the hall once more.
The Goblet of Fire burned bright and steady, blue as starlight. But beneath the calm flame, a faint red pulse lingeredsmall, nearly invisible, like a secret waiting to ignite.
At the Slytherin table, Theo exhaled.
"That's two," he murmured. "Only Hogwarts left."
Alden didn't blink.
"Not quite," he said.
And the Goblet, as if it had heard him, flickered again, softer this time, but enough for Dumbledore to glance toward it, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
The silence was total now. The air in the Great Hall felt thinner somehow, as though every candle, every whisper, every heartbeat was holding still for the next breath. Only the Goblet moved, its flame curling in slow spirals of blue and white, the hum beneath it deepening into something alive.
At the staff table, Dumbledore stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the cup . The light flickered across his glasses, hiding his expression. Even the professors seemed tosense that what was coming was not routine, not rehearsed.
The Goblet began to pulse. Once. Twice. Then again, faster, until the entire hall shimmered with reflected fire . A few students leaned forward, eyes wide.
Then the Goblet erupted.
A column of flame tore upward, gold bursting through the black sparks cascading across the ceiling like meteors. The force of it swept through the hall, rustling cloaks, rattling plates. Several candles flickered out entirely. A single piece of parchment spun into the air, glowing white-hot at its edges.
Dumbledore caught it with both hands. For a heartbeat, he only stared at the name. The light of the fire painted his face in deep shadow, unreadable.
Then, softly, clearly, his voice rang out.
"The champion for Hogwarts…"
He paused. Every head tilted forward. Every sound vanished.
"…is Alden Dreyse."
The words hit the hall like a thunderclap.
For a split second, nothing. No sound. No movement. Only the blue fire flickering behind Dumbledore, and Alden himself sitting very still, silver hair reflecting its light like tempered steel.
Then
Slytherin exploded.
The bench thundered beneath the pounding of fists and goblets.Draco was on his feet, shouting hoarsely,
"I told you! I told you!"Crabbe and Goyle bellowed beside him, voices lost in the rising chant: "Dreyse! Dreyse! Dreyse!"
Even the older students, Warrington, Pucey, and Vaisey, were clapping, grinning, leaning, and anding over to shake Alden's shoulder.
Across the hall, disbelief cracked into applause. Hufflepuffs clapped hesitantly at first, then with real warmth; Ravenclaws murmured admiration, already dissecting the logic of it; even the Gryffindors joined in, their clapping mingled with shouts of amazement.
"He's fourteen!""He broke the Age Line!""He's representing Hogwartsof cours,e it's him!"
The noise swelled, and through it all, Alden rose from his seat with the same composure he'd had from the start . He adjusted his robes, smoothed his cuffs, and began walking toward the dai s. The light from the Goblet followed him, each step brighter than the last.
Theo stood as he passed, voice just audible over the chaos.
"Guess it remembered you after all."
Alden's lips curled the faintest shadow of a smile.
"It remembers truth," he said.
He reached the center of the hall, the same marble square where, hours before, he had broken the Age Line. The fragments of that spell were long gone, but something in the air still shimmered faintly as if magic itself remembered what had happened here.
When he stopped in front of the Goblet, the crowd began to quiet again. The flame bent toward him, the blue deepening to violet, as though the ancient magic recognized him now not as a challenger, but as its chosen.
Dumbledore met his eye, and for the briefest moment, there was no Headmaster, no student. Only two magicians, separated by age, bound by understanding.
Dumbledore's voice was soft but carried through every corner of the hall.
"Alden Dreyse… the Hogwarts champion."
The applause that followed was different this time, not chaotic, but steady, proud. Like a heartbeat. Even McGonagall was clapping, though her expression was conflicted, torn between admiration and dread.
At the staff table, Snape's mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. Karkaroff looked personally offended; Madame Maxime whispered something sharp in French. But Dumbledore only watched Alden step closer to the Goblet, his silhouette framed by the living fire.
The light flared once more, painting the whole hall in white.
Alden inclined his head, as though accepting a crown unseen.
And then, for the first time all evening, hespoke his voice calm, deliberate, unshaken.
"For Hogwarts," he said quietly. "Let the trial begin."
The fire answered with a sound like thunder. Every candle reignited at once.
And the Great Hall roared.