The sky over the moors had turned the colour of old pewter by the time the owl arrived.
It rattled against the manor's high window with an impatient tap-tap-tap, scattering a trail of rainwater and feathers. Crix appeared beneath it a heartbeat later, long fingers snapping; the latch lifted of its own accord. The owl swooped in, dropped a tightly rolled newspaper onto the silver tray the elf was already holding, and swept out again into the wet, grey morning.
Crix did not take it straight to Alden.
He paused in the corridor, under the watchful gaze of the ancestral portraits, and unrolled the Daily Prophet himself. His old eyes flicked across the front page, pupils narrowing. The more he read, the tighter his grip grew, until the edges of the paper crumpled.
Only then did he move on.
Alden was in the breakfast room, sitting sideways in his chair, one knee hooked over the other, staring through the tall windows at the low clouds sagging over the hills. A pot of tea steamed quietly beside him; he'd forgotten to pour it.
Crix stepped into the room with the air of a herald bringing either a coronation or a beheading.
"It's come," he said.
Alden didn't look away from the glass. "The hearing?"
"The verdict." Crix crossed to him and laid the paper flat on the table. "Potter's."
That got his attention. Alden straightened, reached out, and turned the Prophet so the ink faced him.
The headline screamed in thick, triumphant lettering:
POTTER CLEARED — MINISTRY MAINTAINS VIGILANCE
Below it, a smaller line, neat and precise, in a different hand:
By Clara Kane, Senior Correspondent for Magical Security
"New name," Alden murmured.
Crix's mouth twisted. "New vulture."
He began to read.
The article painted the scene in the old courtroom with efficient strokes: the chained chair, the Wizengamot robed in plum, Fudge presiding with "measured concern," Dumbledore arriving like an unwelcome stormcloud.
Potter's acquittal came halfway down the column, treated almost as a formality.
It was the paragraph after that which mattered.
Though the Wizengamot ultimately voted to clear Mr Potter of all charges, serious questions remain regarding the influence exerted over Hogwarts students by certain faculty members. During the proceedings, Minister Fudge cited concerns about "Dumbledore's pattern of grooming unstable prodigies of obscure or compromised lineage," notably including Alden Dreyse, already under review by the Lineage Integrity Commission for irregular spellwork and unverifiable ancestry.
Crix hissed under his breath, hands curling into fists.
"Read on," Alden said quietly.
The ink marched on, polite as poison.
When pressed, Albus Dumbledore responded with characteristic elusiveness. Asked whether Mr Dreyse posed a danger, he replied: "Mr Dreyse is guilty of control, Minister — a crime you might consider studying." While some present interpreted this as a rebuke to the Minister, others have raised concerns that such phrasing confirms the unusual nature of Dreyse's magic and Headmaster Dumbledore's continued refusal to acknowledge the risks.
Alden let the paper fall back to the table. For a second, emotion flickered—something like a wince quickly smoothed away.
Crix exploded first.
"Characteristic elusiveness?" he repeated, scandalised. "She twists his words like a cursed vine! Professor Dumbledore shields you, and this Clara creature turns it into confession—control as crime—pah! Your ancestors would hex her quills into beetles."
Alden's lips twitched. "Mathius turned an entire editorial staff into goats once."
"Yes, and they bleated more sense than they'd written," Crix snapped.
He stabbed a finger at the column. "Here—this. 'Unstable prodigies'? They write you beside Potter as if you're his shadow. They make the Commission sound noble, like they're trimming bad branches from a family tree. It's filth in respectable ink."
Alden picked the Prophet up again and reread Dumbledore's line in silence.
Mr Dreyse is guilty of control, Minister — a crime you might consider studying.
Half the Wizengamot would hear that as praise. The other half would hear confirmation: Dumbledore had pet monsters; he liked them disciplined.
"He meant it well," Alden said at last.
"Meaning doesn't survive a journalist," Crix growled. "Or a frightened Minister."
Alden shrugged one shoulder. "Fudge heard what he needed to hear. Clara wrote what she was paid to write. It's… untidy. But I can see how it happened."
Crix stared at him. "You understand," he said slowly, "and yet you sit there as if this is weather."
Alden's gaze drifted back to the rain-veiled moors. "Because at least some of it's honest."
Crix bristled. "Honest?"
"Potter shouldn't be expelled for saving his own life," Alden said. "Dumbledore did what he could. And Fudge… Fudge is terrified. It's simpler for him to suggest Dumbledore breeds trouble than admit the world is breaking under his watch." His mouth tightened. "I don't approve. But I understand."
The elf watched him, something sad and fierce in his eyes. "Understanding is not the same as forgiving."
"No," Alden agreed. "But it does make anger feel… inefficient."
Silence folded between them for a moment. The only sound was the soft tick of the clock and the patter of rain against the windowpanes.
Crix drew himself up, spine straightening with old dignity.
"They will say the Headmaster 'admitted' you are dangerous," he said. "They will take his words and carve them into your back."
Alden's fingers smoothed the crease in the paper, precise, controlled. "Then they should choose their sculptor carefully," he said. "Stone remembers its hammer."
Crix's expression flickered — alarm and, treacherously, pride.
"You're fifteen," he muttered.
"Not in their eyes," Alden said lightly. "In print, I'm an experiment."
He folded the Prophet once more, this time with care, and set it aside. The article about Potter's acquittal stared up at the ceiling, unreadable.
"He still protects us," Alden added, almost absently. "The dangerous ones. Even when it costs him."
Crix's voice softened. "And it costs you."
Alden didn't answer. His gaze had gone distant, following the path of raindrops racing each other down the glass.
Outside, the world was cheering the boy who lived another day.
Inside, in a quiet manor on the moors, the boy they feared instead reached for his wand.
"Tea's gone cold," he said.
And the way the cup lifted and refilled itself at a flick of his wrist, as smooth and effortless as breath, made Crix's heart twist.
The hearing was over. The verdicts, it seemed, were only just beginning.
The library had settled into its afternoon hush.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of pale light spilling from the high windows. Shelves loomed like dark, watchful sentries. Alden sat in his usual green leather chair by the hearth, a book open in one hand, a wand resting along the crease of the pages. The fire was low; it didn't need to be any brighter. The quiet suited the room, and it suited him.
On the small table beside him, the Wizarding Wireless crackled to life.
"…and in breaking news," chimed a bright, polished voice, "the Ministry has officially confirmed the acquittal of Harry James Potter in this morning's disciplinary hearing. Wizengamot sources describe the outcome as 'measured, responsible, and in line with our values.'"
Crix moved about the library with a feather duster, long fingers precise as he worked along the spines of ancient Dreyse grimoires. His ears twitched once at the mention of Potter's name, but he did not speak. Alden turned a page. The rustle of parchment was almost louder than the radio.
The host's tone shifted — warmer, conspiratorial.
"Now, listeners," she continued, "no one is saying young Mr Potter is above the law. Certainly not. However, today's ruling sends a clear message: no witch or wizard should be punished for defending themselves against imaginary threats… or alleged ones." A delicate pause. "Unlike certain students whose magic and motives remain… shall we say… opaque."
A soft orchestral jingle played, then faded.
"Which brings us," another voice cut in — male, smug, the sort that enjoyed its own cleverness — "to ongoing public concern about Hogwarts'… direction. With Albus Dumbledore once again appearing in full force at the Ministry, questions are being raised about the pattern we're seeing. First, the Triwizard Tournament irregularities. Then You-Know-Who rumours. Now Mr Potter's exceptional spellwork and his… companions."
The emphasis on the last word hung pointedly.
The host made a sympathetic sound. "You refer, of course, to the recent establishment of the Lineage Integrity Commission."
"Precisely," said the man. "The Commission is not an act of paranoia, as some fringe publications claim. It is a necessary safeguard. When you have boys like Alden Dreyse," — he spoke the name slowly, like a curse he enjoyed pronouncing — "destroying internationally recognized wards, out-duelling fully grown wizards, and exhibiting spellwork linked in multiple reports to Grindelwaldian theory… well. Responsible governance demands observation."
Alden's eyes moved steadily across his page. His face did not.
"Oh, and our listeners will recall," the woman added lightly, "that Mr Dreyse is now confirmed as the first subject of formal review under the Commission."
A brief rustle of parchment; the performance of checking notes.
"Confirmed," she repeated. "Grindelwald's heir—"
The phrase came out sugar-coated, meant to sound careful and objective. It still hit the air like a slur.
"—under investigation for undocumented lineage anomalies, unregulated advanced spellcasting, and his unresolved connection to the… ah… disappearance of certain controversial reporters." A practiced, silvery laugh. "Though of course, no evidence links Mr Dreyse to any such incident. At present, the Commission describes his case only as 'high priority.'"
The male commentator hummed. "It does raise disquieting questions, doesn't it? Dumbledore places a boy of obscure blood and dangerous talent in a position of prestige during the Triwizard Tournament, shields him from scrutiny, then dismisses concerns with that curious remark today: 'Mr Dreyse is guilty of control, a crime you might consider studying.' Cryptic. Troubling. One might almost think the Headmaster proud of keeping such a—"
The wireless crackled; another jingle swelled under his words.
"—such a weapon so close to our children."
Crix's hand stilled on the shelf.
"For contrast," the woman chimed in smoothly, "we note that Mr Potter's actions — though technically unlawful — occurred in a Muggle environment, with no lasting harm, and, thanks to the Wizengamot's wisdom, have been judged an understandable overreaction by a boy under… influence." Another careful pause. "One hopes he remains wary of the company he keeps at school."
Alden's thumb rested on the edge of the page. He did not turn it.
"In summary," the man concluded, "we commend the court's leniency toward Harry Potter. But we also support the Ministry's vigilance against those, like Dreyse, whose loyalties and legacies are less clear."
"We'll have more after the hour," the host said brightly. "Next up: what the Lineage Integrity Commission means for your family."
Crix set the feather duster down with slow, deliberate care.
He did not look at Alden.
He crossed the room, straightened a stack of older volumes that were already perfectly aligned, then slipped out without a word, as he had mentioned that morning, to finalize Alden's new school robes and replace the shirts Pomfrey's bandages had bloodstained beyond repair.
Left alone, Alden reached forward and, with a light tap of his wand against the brass casing, turned the volume down until the voices became a thin, distant murmur.
He did not switch it off.
He lowered his hand, eyes returning to the silent lines of his book, and read on.
Outside, the wireless droned like an insect at the window, repeating the same charm of words again and again:
Grindelwald's heir is under investigation.Vigilance.Weapon.
The fire shifted. His wand lay quiet against the page.
He did not blink.
The fire had burned down to coals. Only the wireless still spoke.
Its voice had changed — the bright chatter of the earlier broadcast replaced by the slower, cultivated tone of an evening programme. Alden sat where he had been all day, the lamplight pooling across the table, the paper folded beside him. He hadn't opened another book. He hadn't moved much at all.
The voice on the radio was male, clipped and assured — the kind that carried authority because it never had to earn it.
"—and now, as promised, an official clarification from the Ministry of Magic regarding the recently announced Lineage Integrity Commission."
A rustle of parchment. A cough. Then the words continued, heavy with self-importance.
"This Commission is not, as some alarmists claim, an inquisition. It is a necessary measure of transparency. The wizarding world, you see, has for centuries operated under assumptions of hereditary stability — that magical families pass down reliable, safe, regulated magic. However, following the events of the Triwizard Tournament and other irregular incidents, it has become clear that oversight is required."
Alden leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips. Oversight. A pretty word for surveillance.
"The Commission will begin its work immediately," the voice went on. "Its initial review includes certain old families — the Lestranges, the Travers, the Carrows, and, yes, the Dreyse line — families with known exposure to or experimentation with unsanctioned magical theory. Let me emphasize: this is not punishment, merely precaution. Citizens with clean records need not concern themselves."
The radio crackled faintly; a softer female voice joined, warm and reassuring in the way healers spoke to frightened patients.
"For most listeners, of course, this Commission will never darken your door. Only those whose magic shows… abnormalities, or whose family histories raise questions, will be interviewed. In such cases, a panel of qualified examiners will conduct brief wand analyses, magical resonance scans, and ancestry verifications. Those found to possess… unstable magical signatures will be offered correctional education, or, in rare cases, containment until stability is achieved."
Containment. The word slipped through the static like a chill.
Alden's eyes flicked to the fire. The embers pulsed faintly green. He could almost see the phrasing already inked into Ministry memos — Correctional Containment Procedures, Section B.
"And when that stability is achieved?" the man's voice asked."Then, naturally," the woman answered brightly, "the Commission's duty will be complete. Families will be cleared, records sealed, and order restored.""And if it is not achieved?"A pause, genteel and brief."Then, as under the Dark Devices Regulation Act, the individual in question will be referred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Permanent wand revocation or custodial relocation may be considered."
The fire popped softly.
"Experts assure us that such measures will be rare. But we must remember: control is safety. Stability is peace. The wizarding world can no longer afford… anomalies."
Alden's gaze wandered back to the window. Outside, the moors were black and wide, the sky low and empty. He could see his reflection in the glass — faint, superimposed on the horizon. A pale outline of a boy listening to his own future being described as a public service announcement.
The wireless droned on, listing committee members, all pure-blood officials with spotless reputations and spotless consciences.
"In fact," the host concluded cheerfully, "some believe this Commission will prove the final word on the so-called 'Grindelwald lineage theories' — putting to rest, once and for all, the paranoia surrounding old blood. A cleansing of the record, if you will. And for those who fear the name Dreyse means danger — well, they can rest easy knowing the Ministry is watching. Vigilance, after all, keeps us safe."
The programme faded into orchestral music — light, uplifting, utterly false.
Alden sat very still.
The flames shifted, reflecting off his eyes until they glimmered grey-green, cold as the glass. Somewhere in the manor's upper hall, a clock struck the hour. Crix hadn't returned yet. The air smelled faintly of dust and rain and ink.
He reached out and turned the dial, lowering the volume until the music was little more than a whisper. The room filled with silence again — not peace, but the kind that carried weight. The kind that meant something had changed.
For the first time that day, Alden spoke, barely above a breath.
"Correctional containment," he said softly, tasting the words. "For existing."
He sat back, and the faintest curl of thought — bitter, sharp, impossible to unhear—slipped through him like a crack in glass.
They fear what they've built. And they'll call it safety when they tear it down.
Outside, thunder rolled once, distant and low, as though the moors themselves were answering.
Alden closed his eyes and listened.
The wireless had gone quiet at last, reduced to a low hum of static and the occasional hollow crackle — like the breath of something dying. Alden let it play. It filled the silence just enough to keep it from feeling sacred.
He sat motionless for a long time, elbows on his knees, wand balanced across his fingers. The fire had faded to embers, faint green tongues flickering low against the grate. His reflection in the darkened window stared back at him — pale, patient, almost amused.
Finally, he smiled.
"A joke," he said softly, to no one. His voice was quiet, unhurried. "The Ministry's turned fear into bureaucracy… and called it order."
The smile lingered for half a second longer before he stood, the chair scraping softly against the stone. He crossed to the center of the study, where the moonlight fell through the tall arched window and painted the floor in silver. His wand felt strange in his hand — not unfamiliar, just heavier, like an old friend after too long apart.
He took a breath and lifted it.
"Lumos."
The tip flared, then sputtered. For a heartbeat, it was only a glowworm flickering against the dark — then it steadied, a thin white flame stretching outward. It caught in his eyes, reflecting green-grey, then cooled, dimming into that same faint silver tone that marked all of his magic.
He turned his wrist; the light blinked out."Nox."
Alden waited. His fingers tingled faintly, as though the wand was waking up along with him.
"Alohomora."
The sound of a latch clicking open drifted from across the room. The old chest by the hearth creaked as its lock popped loose, the lid yawning slightly before settling again. Smooth. Precise.
He tilted his head, lips quirking.
"Still obedient."
Then, quietly, "Reparo."
One of the books on the table — its spine half-split from age — knit itself together, the gold lettering reforming letter by letter. The smell of parchment filled the air.
He rolled his shoulders, tension bleeding out of them, and moved on.
The next spell wasn't from Hogwarts. It was one of his own — born of theory and curiosity, not of any textbook.
"Depulso Vector."
A silent pulse rippled through the room, the air folding in on itself. Dust lifted from the shelves in a perfect circle, hung there for a second, then settled again without a sound. The echo it left behind was felt rather than heard — a vibration in the bones.
Alden exhaled through his nose, faintly pleased.
Then, "Umbra Velo."
The light bent. The shadows of the room deepened around him until they clung like silk. The fire dimmed to a dull ember as the darkness folded over him, soft and absolute. Within it, he felt something like calm — not power, not thrill, just peace. The quiet hum of his own magic aligned, steady and whole.
He lifted the wand again, let the veil fade, and whispered, "Banishing Charm."
The door across the study burst inward with a soft thump, the curtains rippling in its wake.A mirror on the far wall trembled, slipped free from its frame, and shattered on the floor.
The sound was like ice breaking over deep water.
He didn't flinch. He only raised his wand again, voice low, effortless.
"Reparo."
The shards stirred, lifted, and spun, drawn together by invisible threads. They fused into a perfect sheet once more, sliding neatly back into its frame. A single vein of silver ran through the glass where the break had been, faint but glinting.
Alden stepped closer. His reflection met him — taller now, the angles of his face sharpened by moonlight. His eyes, caught in the silver glow, looked almost metallic.
He studied himself for a long moment.
"Still works," he murmured. "Even if the world doesn't."
His reflection's lips shaped the words in perfect silence. Behind it, the fire guttered, sending greenish light crawling up the walls. He lowered the wand, brushing his thumb along the ebony wood until it hummed faintly in response.
"Good," he said, barely above a whisper. "Let them test their Commission. I'll test the truth."
He turned away, the hem of his robe whispering against the stone as he crossed back toward the desk. The wireless muttered faintly — something about public confidence and containment facilities — but he didn't listen this time.
The wandlight still glowed faintly at his side, a thin, silver thread through the dark.
Outside, the moors were silent beneath the moon. Inside, the boy the Ministry had branded dangerous smiled, just once, before extinguishing the light.
Nox.