The doors of the Great Hall crashed open with a sound like thunder splitting stone.
Wind rushed in — cold, sharp, wild — scattering candleflames and tugging at the long black drapes behind the teachers' table. Goblets rattled. Students flinched. The ceiling storm flared in sympathy, lightning blooming overhead.
And in the doorway stood Alden Dreyse.
He was barefoot, bare-chested, the white of bandages glowing against the bruised dim of the hall. His skin was a map of scars — angry, silver, half-healed — tracing his collarbone, his ribs, his forearms. Hair uneven, cropped rough where Madam Pomfrey had cut away cursed burns. His eyes — pale grey, rimmed red from fever and sleeplessness — swept the room, disoriented but lucid enough to know he was not dreaming.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then Pomfrey burst through behind him, wild-eyed, still in her apron."Alden Dreyse!" she shrieked. "You get back to that bed this instant!"
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, still panting, voice hoarse and cracked from disuse."I…" He blinked, looked around at hundreds of faces, frozen between awe and horror. "…hope I'm not interrupting."
The silence broke like glass. Whisper upon whisper — his name, disbelief, someone near the Ravenclaw table muttering, He's alive—
Dumbledore's voice cut softly through it all. "Not at all, my boy."
Alden managed a lopsided smile, faint and frayed at the edges. "Perfect," he said. "Then — is it all right if I speak?"
Pomfrey sputtered, storming past a table of wide-eyed Gryffindors. "Absolutely not! You will not be—"
"It's all right, Poppy," Dumbledore murmured, eyes never leaving Alden. His tone was warm, unyielding. "Let him."
The matron stopped short, furious, hands on her hips. "He woke up less than an hour ago! He can barely stand!"
Alden's answer was a quiet chuckle that turned into a cough. "Seems I'm standing now."
The laughter that rippled through the room was nervous, unsure. Pomfrey made a strangled sound of protest as he began walking — slow, uneven, each step a small act of rebellion. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet; he didn't seem to notice.
Every pair of eyes followed him.
He passed the Hufflepuff table first — the same students who'd once whispered about the frost that followed him down corridors. Now they leaned forward, faces pale, breath held. A few clapped their hands over their mouths. One girl whispered, "Merlin, he's—he's a mess."
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione rose half-out of her seat before sitting again, torn between concern and awe. Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded like bloody hell, and Harry — Harry couldn't look away.
He remembered the frost, the fire, the sound of Alden's voice in the graveyard: Run. And now that same boy walked toward the front of the hall like a ghost that refused to die.
At the Slytherin table, no one moved. Theo was frozen mid-breath, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Daphne's fork slipped from her fingers, clattering against her plate. Draco's eyes were wide, disbelieving, and then narrowing, like he was trying to decide whether to be furious or proud. Even Pansy — usually so sharp-tongued — sat rigid, her lips parted in silent shock.
Alden's gait faltered once halfway down the aisle, and Pomfrey lunged as if to catch him, but he steadied himself with a small shake of the head.
"Still vertical," he muttered under his breath. "Progress."
He reached the front of the hall, stopping a few paces from the teachers' table. The wind from the open doors carried the scent of rain, and the stormlight painted his bandages silver.
For a long moment, the hall simply stared.
Dumbledore's gaze softened, something flickering there — pride, grief, relief all in one. Snape's hands were clenched on the table before him, the only sign of tension breaking through his usual mask. McGonagall's eyes were bright with something unshed, and Hagrid wiped at his nose with the back of a meaty hand, muttering, "Knew he'd pull through, knew it."
Alden drew a shallow breath, the words dragging through him."I'm sorry," he said quietly, but the words filled the space. "For the commotion. For the month of—" he searched for the word, found it, "—waiting."
He glanced back over the crowd, the corners of his mouth twitching in wry amusement. "Didn't mean to make the hospital wing a common room."
Pomfrey let out a sound halfway between a sob and a growl.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "No apology needed, my boy. You've already done enough for several lifetimes."
Alden's gaze flicked up, something unspoken passing between them. "Maybe," he murmured, "but I think there's one more thing."
He turned back to the hall, to the hundreds of students staring at him with bated breath, and straightened his spine, fragile as it was. The storm's light caught the grey in his eyes and turned them silver.
"Since I've come this far," he said, voice steadying, "I might as well tell you the truth."
And in that instant — with the Great Hall silent as the grave — everyone knew he meant to.
Alden's breath came shallow, the rise and fall of his chest strained under the weight of his bandages. For a moment, he simply stood there at the front of the Great Hall — barefoot, scarred, haloed in stormlight — looking out over hundreds of faces. The silence pressed close, taut as spell-thread.
He opened his mouth once, closed it again. His throat worked, dry.
"First…" He paused, cleared his throat, wincing at the sound of it — raw and thin. "First, I owe you all an apology."
The words landed softly, but they reached every corner of the room.
"For the worry." His voice cracked; he forced a faint smile, bitter and self-mocking. "For the silence. I didn't mean to make the hospital wing your pilgrimage site."
A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the crowd — brief, uncertain. Madam Pomfrey made an indignant sniff, though her eyes were wet.
Alden shifted his weight, as if each breath cost him something. "I didn't mean to make anyone believe I was—"He faltered, the word catching somewhere in his chest. He swallowed hard, looking down at his hands — pale, trembling, faint traces of potion-stained scars along the fingers."—gone."
The last word hung there, fragile as glass.
Daphne's hand flew to her mouth. Theo's head bowed low. From where Harry sat, the simple honesty of it cut deeper than any speech could.
Alden took a moment, pressing the heel of his palm against his ribs, breathing through a flare of pain."Sorry," he muttered. "Still… getting used to talking."
Dumbledore gave a single, silent nod — permission to take his time.
Alden drew a deeper breath, slow and careful. "I suppose I should start with why I entered the Tournament at all."
He lifted his head, eyes sweeping the room again — not defiant now, but steady. The voice of someone refusing to hide anymore."I entered because I thought I could prove something. That there's no difference in magic — no dark, no light. Only intent."
He let the words sink in, watching the subtle shifts among the students — some nodding, some frowning, some whispering to one another.
"That belief," he said after a pause, "nearly killed me."
He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing through his chest. Pomfrey took a step forward, wand half-raised, but Alden lifted a hand without looking at her. "Fine," he rasped. "Just… fine." He swallowed again, voice low but unflinching. "I was wrong."
The admission was small, but the effect was enormous. The hall seemed to contract around him — the soundless recoil of hundreds of people hearing pride surrender itself to truth.
Alden exhaled shakily. "During the third task," he said, "I realized the Cup was wrong. The enchantment felt… layered, off. Too deliberate."
He grimaced, one hand absently brushing the bandages along his collarbone, as if feeling again the weight of the sigils burned into his skin.
"I told Potter," he went on. "We both knew it wouldn't take us forward. We agreed to touch it anyway."
The storm outside gave a low, rolling growl.
"We landed in a graveyard." His voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. "Dead air. Dead land. And death was waiting."
The torches flickered as if reacting to the memory.
Across the hall, Harry stared down at his hands, jaw tight. Every word of it was true — every syllable dragged up from that night as something dug out of the dirt.
Alden's gaze unfocused for a second, the exhaustion catching up to him. He swayed — barely — but caught himself on the edge of the teachers' table. "Sorry," he murmured again, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not exactly… the best storyteller."
From somewhere near the front, Hagrid's deep rumble broke the stillness: "Yer doin' fine, lad."
Alden's lips twitched faintly. "Thanks," he said, his voice rasping around the word.
And then he lifted his head again, grey eyes sharp through the fatigue. "But that's where it began. Not in the maze. Not with the Cup. With what was waiting for us in that graveyard."
The hall seemed to lean toward him, every student breathless, every teacher still. The storm outside cracked open, thunder rolling like a heartbeat.
And Alden Dreyse, bandaged and broken, drew another slow, painful breath — preparing to tell them what came next.
Alden paused, his breathing ragged — the words he'd already spoken leaving him pale, sweat beading faintly along his temples."Sorry," he muttered hoarsely, lifting a trembling hand as if to steady the air between them. "Still getting used to… air."
Pomfrey hovered just behind him, but he pressed on before she could protest.
"The place we landed," he said slowly, eyes going distant, voice turning soft and cold at once, "was grey. Not like fog — not like morning mist. Grey like… something bled out of the world."
He looked past the crowd now, as if seeing through them, back into the memory."There were tombstones. Hundreds. Rows that didn't end. The ground was all ash and gravel — no grass, no sound. Even the wind felt dead."
A small tremor ran through his hand. He coughed again, low and wet, and winced before continuing."There was a cauldron in the middle of the clearing. Big enough to drown someone in. Steam was coming off it even though it was cold enough to burn. And behind it…" He swallowed hard. "…a figure. Cloaked. Thin. Moved like it wasn't human."
The air in the Great Hall grew taut — the whisper of robes, a few gasps swallowed quickly.
"I thought it was a dream," Alden said. "Until I saw the scythe. Just resting there, in its hands. A mockery of Death itself, watching."
He drew a shallow, shaky breath. "Then—then a man stepped out from the shadows. Small, twisted. You've all seen him before, though you might not know it. Peter Pettigrew."
A flicker ran through the room — disbelief, recognition, a rustle of mutters.
"He saw us," Alden continued, his voice thinning. "And before I could even think—he fired."
A flash of green burned behind his eyes, bright and violent as if it still lingered in his retinas. He flinched despite himself."The Killing Curse. Fastest I've ever seen. If I hadn't thrown my wand up—" He stopped, pressing a hand to his ribs as another cough tore through him.
Pomfrey took a step forward, but he forced a weak smirk. "See? Still paying for it."
A few nervous chuckles.
He looked to Harry then — a flicker of warmth breaking through the haunted grey. "I told him to run. To go back to the Cup. I thought maybe, maybe one of us could make it." His expression darkened. "But he couldn't move. He was pinned to a statue — some cursed binding. And me—"
He lifted his arms, showing faint reddish lines beneath the bandages. "Chains. The magic burned. Sigils that crawled over skin like acid. I couldn't move, couldn't cast, couldn't do anything."
His eyes glazed, voice quieter. "And we had to watch."
The Great Hall was utterly silent now. The storm outside seemed to be still, as if even the thunder didn't dare interrupt.
Alden's gaze fell to the floor, his words trembling out like old ash."We watched as Pettigrew started the ritual. The potion. Blood, bone, flesh. He said the words like he'd said them a thousand times before. And when it ended…"
He stopped again — just stopped — and the pause stretched long enough that Pomfrey looked ready to grab him. He took a single breath that sounded more like a shudder.
"When it ended," he said, quieter still, "the air broke. Like the world cracked open and something wrong climbed out."
He swallowed again, his throat raw."Voldemort… was reborn."
The name landed like thunder. Even the professors flinched. The students near the front instinctively shrank back.
"Yes," Alden said, his voice rasping. "Despite what you may think. Or what they'll tell you. He lives."
He closed his eyes. "And being near him—it's not like facing power. It's like standing inside a nightmare that remembers your name. Every thought, every fear you've ever had, turns on you. You stop breathing without realizing it. You start believing you were never meant to exist."
The tremor in his voice cracked something in the room. McGonagall's hand pressed to her mouth. Even Snape's eyes had lost their usual guarded sharpness.
Alden coughed again, almost doubling over. Dumbledore rose slightly, but Alden waved him down with a faint, shaking hand. "Still not done."
He straightened, face pale and damp with sweat. "He spoke to me first," he said, quieter now, eyes still distant. "Looked at me like I was… familiar. Asked me whose blood ran in my veins. Asked me if I'd kneel."
He swallowed, the ghost of a grin cutting through his exhaustion. "I told him no."
The Great Hall seemed to hold its breath as he leaned a little heavier on the table behind him, voice thin as a wire."And that," Alden whispered, "was when he decided to teach me what disobedience costs."
He closed his eyes, chest rising shallowly, each word scraping out as if dragged from a wound that hadn't healed.
"That's where the fight began."
Alden's voice had gone hoarse. Every syllable seemed to tear on the way out, like the air itself burned to speak of it.
"I fought him."
The words were small. Not proud — hollow.
"I fought him because he told me to."
He lifted his head, eyes half-shadowed by exhaustion. "It wasn't bravery. It wasn't defiance. It was a command. He wanted a duel, and he wanted an audience — me and Harry, chained to his little theatre. And I…" He gave a dry, bitter laugh. "I played my part."
The hall was silent. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torches and Alden's ragged breathing.
"I did everything I've ever learned. Every spell, every counter-curse, every trick I thought might matter. But it didn't." He exhaled sharply, the words trembling. "Nothing touched him. Nothing. I couldn't even lay a scratch on him."
He looked down at his hands, still trembling faintly — the knuckles pale, a faint shimmer of potion-glossed scars running along the veins. "You don't understand what that feels like. To have everything you are — all your effort, all your knowledge, all your control — stripped away in seconds. To realize you're not even an opponent. You're a lesson."
He blinked slowly, a flicker of shame cutting through the exhaustion. "He toyed with me. Wanted to see what a 'Dreyse heir' could do. He said the name like a curse, like my family's blood was just another one of his relics."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the Slytherin table, voice lower now, as though confessing. "He called me the next Dark Lord." He almost spat the words, but there was no anger — only weariness. "He laughed when I denied it. Said the world would always need someone like me to replace him when he was gone."
A tremor shook his hand again, and this time he didn't hide it. "I thought about letting him kill me right there. Thought it might prove him wrong."
Pomfrey made a small, strangled sound. Snape's eyes flicked up sharply, but Alden didn't notice.
"There were moments," he said, quieter now, eyes unfocused. "Between the curses. Between the screams. Moments when I resolved myself to die in that graveyard. To die being mocked, with my family's name rotting on his tongue."
The hall didn't move. Even the portraits along the walls seemed to have gone still, the painted ghosts leaning closer.
"But," Alden said after a long pause, "I didn't."
He touched the side of his neck, where a faint scar traced downward beneath the collarbone. "Because something stopped a curse that should've killed me. It hit me head-on — and still, I lived. When I woke up, I realized why."
He opened his hand, empty. "The ring. The one Daphne gave me."
Across the room, Daphne's breath caught.
"It shattered," he said simply. "All that magic, all that care, gone in a second. Because I hesitated."
He drew a sharp breath that sounded almost like a sob but steadied it into a laugh — quiet, bitter, self-directed. "Because in that moment — that one lapse in judgement — I thought about running."
The words dropped like lead.
"I thought about leaving Harry there. Thought if I could just get back to the Cup, maybe someone would come for him. Maybe someone stronger. I told myself it wasn't cowardice. It was a strategy." He looked toward Harry then, eyes raw. "But that was a lie."
Harry's throat tightened.
Alden blinked through the dizziness, trying to keep his focus. "He yelled at me," he said, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. "Told me to run. And for a moment, I almost did. Every instinct — every survival reflex I had — screamed to get out. But I didn't."
He straightened, swaying slightly but forcing his shoulders back. "I stayed."
His voice deepened — low, firm, the tremor gone. "I stayed because if I ran, then everything I'd ever said about intent, about control, about purpose, would mean nothing. Because what's the point of all that power if it only serves yourself?"
His breath hitched. He took a moment, eyes fluttering shut, a coughing fit wracking his chest. Pomfrey stepped forward again, wand ready, but he waved her off, panting. "Almost done," he rasped.
"I stayed," he repeated, quieter now, "to find a way out for both of us. I don't know how I thought I could, but I couldn't let him win like that — not by making me into what he said I was. So I fought. I fought until I couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Until the world itself cracked apart around us."
He swallowed, his voice fading to something almost gentle. "And I lost. Badly."
The last word was almost tender, a truth without bitterness.
"I don't remember much after that," he admitted. "Just the ground. Blood. His laughter. And Harry." He met Harry's gaze again. "The last thing I saw before everything went dark was him — still standing. Still trying. And I thought—"
His voice broke for the first time. "—I thought, if anyone could get out, it'd be him."
A pause. The storm outside rolled low again, a distant growl beneath the silence.
"I told him to run." His tone was soft now, almost a whisper meant for one person. "And he did what I couldn't. He got us both out."
The Great Hall didn't move. Not a breath. Not a sound.
Alden coughed once more, doubling slightly, his hand gripping the table edge to stay upright. When he straightened again, his voice was calm, though his eyes gleamed faintly in the light.
"So," he said simply, "if anyone tells you that Harry Potter ran away, that he failed, that he wasn't there when it mattered…" His gaze swept the room, quiet and cutting. "Come find me."
A hush rippled through the hall, the challenge sinking into every heart.
"I'll show you," Alden said, voice low, even, "what Voldemort can do."
Then he finally fell silent, breathing shallow, his hand still pressed to his ribs — standing in the wreckage of truth he'd just left behind.
For a long, trembling moment, no one moved. The silence stretched so far it seemed the torches themselves forgot to flicker.
Then — a sound. Soft, deliberate.
Theo Nott, sitting rigid at the Slytherin table, began to clap. Once, twice — slow, solemn, defiant. The sound echoed across the marble like the start of a spell.
Draco joined him next, standing without hesitation, his eyes locked on Alden. Then Daphne rose too, tears streaking clean lines through the soot on her cheeks, her palms striking together in a rhythm that carried conviction, not ceremony.
The applause spread like fire. Beauxbatons students followed, their soft, graceful claps turning fierce. Durmstrang joined in — even Krum, jaw tight but head bowed. The Gryffindors followed last, as though stunned by their own admiration.
Within seconds, the Great Hall was shaking with it. A roar of clapping and shouts and names — "Dreyse! Dreyse!" — tangled with "Potter!" and "Hogwarts!" until the noise was one living, thunderous thing.
Alden just stood there, eyes wide and distant, as if he couldn't quite understand what he was seeing. His lips parted to speak — a faint, confused breath — but then his body swayed.
Pomfrey was already moving before anyone else.
Blood had begun to seep through the bandages at his ribs, small red blooms spreading fast. His knees buckled; he caught himself on the table, teeth gritted, coughing hard. It wasn't the dry rasp from before — this one had weight, wet and metallic.
He spat crimson into his hand, blinked at it once, then gave a crooked smile. "Suppose… I overdid it."
"Enough!" Pomfrey's voice cracked like a whip. "That's enough!"
The applause faltered only slightly as she rushed forward, wand snapping in a blur of practiced panic. "Out of my way! Albus—"
"I have him," Dumbledore said gently, already stepping down from the dais. The Headmaster's eyes gleamed not with pity but with a quiet, pained pride. He reached Alden's side just as the boy sagged, his weight giving out entirely.
"Still standing," Alden muttered weakly, eyes unfocused. "Not bad."
"You've done enough standing for one evening," Dumbledore said softly, wrapping an arm beneath his shoulders. "Rest now, my boy."
Theo and Draco had already reached them. "Professor—let us—"
"No," Pomfrey snapped, flicking her wand to conjure a stretcher that shimmered faintly with stasis charms. "He needs proper stabilizers. His stitches are torn. Merlin, his lungs—"
Alden tried to wave her off. "They'll hold."
"They will not," Pomfrey barked, as the stretcher lifted him effortlessly. "You just bled through three layers of SpellSuture."
The hall was chaos now — not fearful, but electric, filled with shouts and the scrape of benches as students crowded to see. Someone yelled his name again, and it spread, becoming a chant that rose and broke like a wave.
"DREYSE! DREYSE! POTTER! DREYSE!"
The chant followed them as Pomfrey and Dumbledore guided the floating stretcher down the center aisle. Alden tried to raise a hand — to wave, to quiet them, to something — but his fingers only twitched before falling limp against his chest.
Harry had stood too, eyes wide, torn between horror and awe. Their gazes met briefly as Alden was carried past. For a heartbeat, through the exhaustion and pain, Alden managed a faint, lopsided smile.
"See?" he rasped, voice barely audible. "Told you… we'd go home."
Then his eyes fluttered shut.
The doors to the Great Hall swung open once more, and Madam Pomfrey vanished through them, her patient in tow.
The chanting didn't stop. It rolled after them, through stone and corridor, chasing the stretcher all the way toward the hospital wing.
By the time the echo faded, every student left behind in the Great Hall was standing — silent again now — staring at the empty space Alden had left behind.
No one knew what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time in a long while, it felt like Hogwarts was breathing again.