The classroom looked as though it had been stripped of its soul overnight. Gone were the old dueling mannequins, the scorch marks from Moody's lessons, even the dark velvet banners that had hung from the ceiling. In their place—frills. Pink frills.
The walls were lined with lace curtains that turned the morning light a queasy shade of rose. A row of decorative plates shimmered along the back wall, each painted with a kitten that mewed softly whenever someone passed. The air smelled faintly of perfume and parchment polish—too clean, too sweet, too deliberate.
Alden stood in the doorway beside Draco, Theo, Daphne, and Tracey. Behind them, Harry and the Gryffindors filtered in, faces caught between disbelief and disgust.
"Merlin's sake," Theo muttered. "It's like someone murdered a sweet shop."
Daphne smothered a laugh behind her hand. Alden didn't smile. His gaze was already fixed on the woman behind the desk.
Professor Umbridge sat primly, a vision in pink wool and pearls, a black velvet bow perched atop her curls like a roosting crow. Her wand—short, stubby, and perfectly polished—lay beside an ornate teacup. The steam curled upward, scented faintly of violets.
"Good afternoon!" she trilled the moment the last student crossed the threshold. Her high, girlish voice didn't match the sharpness in her eyes.
The class hesitated. A few murmured a hesitant reply.
"Tut, tut," said Umbridge, wagging one finger, her smile stretching wider. "That won't do, now, will it? Let's try again. I should like you to respond properly. Good afternoon, class!"
The students, exchanging weary looks, replied in forced unison. "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge."
"There we are," she cooed. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."
A shuffle of movement. Bags opened. Chairs creaked. Alden slipped into his seat beside Daphne; Theo and Draco flanked them from behind. Across the aisle, Harry sat with Ron and Hermione, his face already taut with irritation.
Umbridge rose, her small form barely visible over the desk, and tapped her wand against the blackboard. The chalk wrote obediently in perfect cursive:
Defense Against the Dark Arts: A Return to Basic Principles
She turned back to the class, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Well now," she began, her voice soft and airy, "your teaching in this subject has been rather… disrupted, hasn't it?"
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
"The constant changing of instructors—many of whom, I regret to say, did not follow a Ministry-approved curriculum—has left you dreadfully behind." She smiled sweetly, as though bestowing a compliment. "But you'll be pleased to know that these problems will be rectified this year. You are in very capable hands."
Theo leaned forward, muttering under his breath, "Capable of what, exactly?"
Alden's lips twitched faintly, but he didn't look up. He kept his quill poised, eyes on the board.
Umbridge continued, each word like a bead on a string:"We will follow a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-sanctioned course of defensive magic. Copy down the following, please."
She rapped the board again. The title vanished, replaced by a list written in immaculate cursive:
Course Aims
Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
Placing the use of defensive magic in an appropriate social context.
The only sounds were the scratching of quills and the quiet mewling of kitten plates.
Umbridge wandered slowly between the desks, her perfume thick as she passed. "I am sure," she said, "that some of you may have picked up certain habits from previous instructors. Dueling. Improvisation. Practical exercises." She said the word "practical" as if it were something indecent. "But here, we will be returning to the roots of learning—calm, controlled, theoretical study."
A few Gryffindors exchanged looks. Seamus whispered something to Dean; both stifled grins.
Umbridge stopped at their table. "Something to share, Mr. Finnigan?"
Seamus froze. "Er—no, Professor."
Her smile sharpened. "Good. Because I do so dislike disruptions. They can spread." Her gaze flicked, almost lazily, to the Slytherin side—then lingered. On Alden.
Alden didn't move, didn't blink. Only Daphne noticed the way his hand tightened slightly around his quill.
"Has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?" Umbridge asked, turning back toward the front.
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," the class chorused, though half the voices were sullen.
"Splendid," she said. "Turn to page five, chapter one: Basics for Beginners. There will be no need to speak."
With that, she sat, folding her small hands over the desk and watching them—no pretense of reading, no busywork—just watching. Her eyes, dark and pouchy, swept the room in slow, deliberate arcs.
It was the strangest silence Alden had ever felt in a classroom. Not studious, not bored—something colder. Like the pause before a duel.
He opened his book, though the words blurred into meaninglessness. Theories. Case laws. Definitions. Empty.
Beside him, Daphne shifted. "This feels wrong," she whispered under her breath.
Alden gave the faintest nod, the motion barely perceptible.
Across the aisle, Harry was already fidgeting. His jaw worked, eyes flicking between the book and Umbridge. Alden could see the tension building—the same restless, righteous energy that had gotten Harry into more than one disaster.
It was only a matter of time before he spoke.
Alden lowered his eyes back to the page, tracing the dull, looping words with his quill. Stay quiet, Snape had said. Do not give them the inch they want.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. The Ministry might have sent her for Potter—but she was watching him, too.
And in that suffocating pink light, Alden realized this wasn't a class. It was a test. A silent, smiling interrogation.
Hermione's hand shot into the air before anyone else had even turned a page.
It hovered there, unwavering, as the minutes ticked by. The rest of the class began to notice—first Seamus, then Parvati, then the entire left side of the room. But Umbridge, perched primly at her desk, sipped her tea and pretended not to see.
The room was silent but for the faint, rhythmic lap-lap of the kittens on their painted plates. Alden didn't look up from his parchment, though he could feel the tension growing thicker with every second. Beside him, Daphne's quill had stopped moving.
Finally, Umbridge set down her teacup with an exaggerated sigh. "Did you wish to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she said, her voice a sugary mockery of patience.
"Not about the chapter, no," said Hermione, lowering her hand slightly but not her gaze.
"Well, we're reading just now," said Umbridge sweetly. "If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class."
"I've got a query about your course aims," Hermione said flatly.
A few students exchanged quick, wary glances—Harry leaned forward slightly, Ron muttered something under his breath. Alden kept his expression blank, but his eyes lifted, curious despite himself.
Umbridge's eyebrows arched like two black quills. "And your name is?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear, if you've read them carefully."
"They're clear," Hermione said, "but they're wrong. There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells."
Umbridge's smile twitched. For a fraction of a second, something cold and reptilian flickered in her eyes. Then the syrup returned. "Using defensive spells?" she repeated with a little laugh. "My dear girl, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require such a thing. You surely don't expect to be attacked during class?"
A few people laughed nervously. Ron blurted, "We're not going to use magic?"
"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak," said Umbridge without looking at him. "Mr…?"
"Weasley," he muttered, thrusting his hand up belatedly.
She ignored him completely, turning her attention instead to Hermione again.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells," Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly but not from fear—frustration.
Umbridge gave a small, pitying smile. "Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?"
"No, but—"
"Well then," Umbridge cut in, her tone honeyed but razor-sharp, "I'm afraid you're not qualified to decide what the whole point of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have designed this curriculum. You will learn about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free, Ministry-approved way."
Across the room, Parvati frowned. "But how are we supposed to pass the practical part of our O.W.L. if we never—"
"Theory is more than sufficient preparation," Umbridge interrupted. "You will find that proper understanding is far safer than reckless experimentation."
Her gaze drifted lazily across the room, and for a moment, it landed on Alden. The words slowed, the false warmth in her voice thinning.
"Some students," she said softly, "have unfortunately developed… radical ideas about what constitutes appropriate magical study. Certain dangerous notions about the boundaries between what is Light and what is Dark."
There was a ripple of whispering—barely audible, but immediate. Daphne's quill stopped scratching. Theo shifted in his seat. Draco's eyes flicked from Umbridge to Alden, then back again.
Alden didn't move. His hand was steady on his parchment, though the tip of his quill dug too deep, blotting the word principles in a dark ink scar.
Umbridge continued, as if reciting a lecture she'd practiced in front of a mirror. "Magic, dear children, is a privilege, not a right. When students begin to imagine themselves capable of defining what is or is not Dark… when they place their personal interpretation above Ministry decree…"
She smiled wider, teeth small and pointed. "Well. We've seen what tragedies such arrogance can bring."
The message was clear enough that even the dullest in the room caught it.
Seamus leaned toward Dean and whispered, "She means Dreyse."
Dean gave him a warning look, but others had already started murmuring too. Alden could feel the weight of it—the eyes sliding toward him, the half-hidden smirks, the way silence folded in around his name.
Daphne's hand brushed his knee under the desk. Don't, her fingers seemed to say.
He didn't. He merely adjusted the sleeve of his robe, covering the faint ridge of old scars along his wrist, and forced his quill to move again.
Umbridge resumed her saccharine tone, moving on to praise the "maturity" of theoretical learning, but the air had shifted. Every word now carried a faint tremor beneath it—something that hissed between her false smiles: I see you, Mr. Dreyse. And the Ministry sees you too.
The scratching of quills had slowed to a dull, unsteady rhythm. A few students had already given up pretending to read. Harry's page lay half-blank before him, the ink pooled in one corner where his hand had gone still.
Umbridge looked supremely pleased with herself, hands folded like a porcelain doll's, head tilted in that infuriating parody of benevolence.
"You will find," she said, "that a thorough grounding in theory will protect you from all manner of—"
"Protect us?" Harry's voice cracked across the room like a whip. "Protect us how? With definitions?"
Every head turned. Even the kitten plates froze mid-purr.
Umbridge blinked, very slowly. "Mr. Potter, we raise our hands when we wish to speak."
Harry didn't move his hand. "A student nearly died last year, fighting Voldemort—"
Gasps broke out; Lavender yelped; Neville went rigid. Umbridge's smile didn't flicker, but her eyes gleamed.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," she said sweetly. "And I will thank you not to spread dangerous myths in my classroom."
"It's not a myth!" Harry snapped. "Alden was there! We both saw it! Voldemort came back in that graveyard—"
A faint rustle went through the class as if the air itself recoiled from the name. All at once, the room's attention pivoted to Alden.
He sat utterly still, eyes lowered to his parchment, his jaw tight enough to whiten the knuckles around his quill. Daphne's hand found his knee under the desk, a silent plea: Don't. Please don't.
Umbridge's smile widened, all teeth now. "I see," she said softly. "Much like other… embellished tales of graveyard heroics and tragic duels that exist only to frighten honest witches and wizards."
Her gaze slid—unmistakably—to Alden. The silence that followed had weight; it pressed against the walls, against lungs, until Theo shifted in his seat as though to break it.
Harry rose half out of his chair. "You weren't there," he said furiously. "You didn't see what happened. He nearly died—he bled for it! You sit here and call it a story because the Ministry's too scared to admit what's really happening!"
"That will do, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said in a sing-song voice, but the pink in her cheeks had curdled to blotches.
"They're targeting him," Harry went on, voice rising. "That's what this is! They can't shut Dumbledore up, so they'll go after Alden instead. Pretend he's the problem—pretend we're the problem—"
"Enough!" The word cracked out of Umbridge, shrill and hard. "Detention, Mr. Potter. Tomorrow evening, five o'clock, my office. You will also deliver a written apology to the Ministry for your defamatory remarks."
Harry's chair screeched against the floor as he stood. "You can tell the Ministry they're cowards," he said, his face red with fury. "And they'll regret it when Voldemort comes knocking again."
The class erupted into whispers and squeals; a few students ducked as if the name itself might hex them. Umbridge stood stiffly, quill already scratching across a roll of pink parchment, her small fingers trembling with contained rage.
"You may take this to Professor McGonagall," she said, sealing the scroll with a tap of her wand. "And consider this your final warning."
Harry snatched the parchment, slammed the door so hard the kitten plates rattled, and was gone.
The silence that followed was deafening. Umbridge turned back to the board, her tone honey-sweet once more as chalk began to scrawl of its own accord.
"And," she said lightly, "we shall add 'encouraging delusions in others, and feeding them lies to lash out at authority' to your file."
The words were meant for the air, but everyone knew who she was really speaking to.
Alden's quill didn't move. He stared at the neat black lines of text until they blurred. The muscles in his jaw jumped once. Daphne's grip tightened around his leg, her nails digging crescents through the fabric.
He swallowed hard, forcing a steady breath through his nose.
Umbridge's chalk kept scraping, shrill and ceaseless.
Across the room, Theo muttered under his breath, "First day back, and the war's already in the classroom."
No one dared answer.
Umbridge waited until the last echo of the slamming door died away. For a moment, she simply stood there, eyes half-lidded, as if savoring the silence Harry had left in his wake. The faint ticking of her jeweled watch filled the pause; then she clasped her hands and beamed.
"Well then," she said lightly, her tone that of someone announcing pudding, "before we proceed, I have a small but important announcement from the Ministry."
A low murmur flickered through the room. Even the kitten plates on the wall seemed to perk up, tails frozen mid-swish.
Umbridge stepped out from behind her desk, her short heels clicking delicately against the flagstones. "As some of you may know," she went on, "our honorable Minister has long been concerned with the quality of magical education and moral instruction provided to our youth." Her voice, high and breathy, rippled across the desks like sugared poison. "To that end, a new program has been developed — one most vital to our nation's future."
She stopped in the center of the room, eyes sweeping across the rows of students. "The Lineage Integrity Commission, or L.I.A., will be visiting Hogwarts next week," she announced, drawing out each syllable as if they were sacred. "It is a Ministry initiative designed to ensure stability, purity of record, and—" her smile sharpened, "—responsible magical ideology."
A hush rolled through the room. Even the bravest whisperers fell quiet.
Umbridge's smile never wavered. "The Commission will offer educational guidance to all students," she said, her voice syrupy and bright, "and will be speaking individually with those whose… unique circumstances warrant special attention. This includes, of course, those with unusual abilities,unverified heritages, or histories that have drawn public interest."
Her words floated in the still air, each one precise, rehearsed—and poisonous.
At the Slytherin table, Daphne's head turned sharply toward Alden. Theo's quill stopped mid-scratch. Even Draco—normally delighted by Ministry interference—had gone silent.
Umbridge folded her hands neatly again. "Particular focus," she continued, "will be given to students who have been publicly associated with alarming claims concerning Dark Lords, graveyard duels, or"—she paused delicately—"those descended from controversial lineages."
The last word hung in the air like a curse.
Every head turned. The motion was so sudden, so uniform, that it carried an almost audible whisper of fabric and breath. A hundred eyes fixed on Alden Dreyse.
He sat very still, staring at the parchment in front of him. His hand trembled just once before the sound came—crack. His quill snapped clean in two between his fingers.
A blot of black ink spread across the margin of Defensive Magical Theory, a dark flower blooming against the cream.
Umbridge's eyes gleamed. "Is there a problem, Mr. Dreyse?" she asked sweetly.
Alden lifted his gaze. The grey-green of his eyes was calm, unreadable. "Apologies, Professor," he said evenly. "Sudden chill."
"Ah." Her smile widened just enough to show her teeth. "That's quite understandable. Sudden chills are… typical, in certain temperaments."
A ripple of low laughter ran through the Gryffindor side.
Theo's jaw clenched. Draco shot them a glare. Daphne, expression like frost, placed her hand lightly over Alden's wrist beneath the desk. He didn't move.
Umbridge drifted back toward her seat. "In any case," she said, tapping her wand against the desk, "the Commission's visit will ensure that all students learn the difference between what is proper magic—and what is not. I do expect your full cooperation."
The kitten plates resumed their purring.
No one spoke.
And for the rest of the lesson, Alden Dreyse's ink blot bled slowly outward across the page until it reached the edge and fell, one black drop after another, onto the stone floor below.
The black ink bled across Alden's parchment like a spreading bruise. He exhaled slowly, realizing the quill had snapped clean in his hand.
"Apologies," he murmured, dabbing at the spill with the edge of his sleeve. "For the mess, Professor."
Umbridge's head tilted. Her bow quivered slightly as she smiled. "Quite all right, Mr. Dreyse," she said, her tone syrup-thick. "It's not uncommon. Dark natures can become… agitated when properly contained."
The word Dark lingered in the air like smoke.
A few Gryffindors tittered under their breath—Seamus, maybe, or Dean—but their laughter was the nervous kind that faltered before it could take root. Over at the Slytherin side, Theo had gone rigid. Draco's eyes flicked sharply to Umbridge, his jaw tightening.
Under the table, Daphne's hand closed around Alden's knee. A quiet warning. Don't.
Alden sat very still, ink-stained fingers resting lightly against his parchment. When he spoke, his voice was calm, low—too even." Perhaps," he said softly. "Though if that were truly the case, Professor… you'd already be dead."
The sound that followed wasn't silence—it was absence.
Every breath in the room seemed to vanish at once.
Hermione's quill clattered to the floor. Ron made a strangled sound halfway between a gasp and a cough. Even the kitten plates froze mid-purr, their painted tails suspended in the air.
Umbridge's face twitched. The little pink bow on her head wobbled as her smile faltered, reforming into something brittle and stretched. "I—beg your pardon?"
Alden looked up, meeting her eyes fully for the first time. His expression was serene, his words deliberate." I said," he repeated, "if someone ever needed to contain a person with a truly dark nature… and you were the one tasked with it—alone, no help, no preparation—you wouldn't contain them. You'd die. Quickly. Quietly."
He tilted his head slightly, voice steady as parchment. "People would wonder what happened. They'd search, perhaps. But they wouldn't find much left."
The color drained from Umbridge's face. For one terrible heartbeat, she looked less like a toad and more like prey—a small, startled thing realizing it had wandered too close to a shadow.
The silence crackled. The class barely dared breathe. Even the air in the dungeon seemed to draw tighter, as if recoiling.
Alden leaned back slightly, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting his lips." So, for your sake, Professor," he murmured, "if you ever decide you'd like to try… to contain me, or make an example of me—out of ego, or pride, or just to send a message—"
He paused, long enough for his words to settle like frost.
"—I hope you're prepared for the consequences. The ones people keep whispering about. What was it they said?" He looked up thoughtfully, as if struggling to recall. "Ah. Right. Grindelwald."
The name landed like a curse.
A chair scraped. Someone whispered, "Merlin's beard," almost reverently.
Umbridge's mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a faint, wheezing squeak. The color was returning to her cheeks now, blotchy and feverish.
For a long, fragile moment, no one moved.
The only sound was the faint rasp of Umbridge's breath—short, uneven, as if she'd just run up several flights of stairs. Her face had gone from ashen to blotched pink, the color crawling up her neck in furious waves. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled, though she tried to lace it with its usual sickly sweetness.
"Hem, hem."
It came out cracked, like glass under strain.
"Out," she said, her smile snapping back into place with visible effort. "Out, Mr. Dreyse. You will march to Professor Snape's office immediately."
No one dared breathe.
Her wand twitched in her hand as she went on, voice rising. "You will compose, in due course, a formal apology to myself, to be read aloud before the entire school for—" her throat bobbed "—for threatening a member of staff and a representative of the Ministry of Magic."
She jabbed the air with her quill, blotting a splatter of pink ink across the desk. "This incident will, of course, be reported directly to the Lineage Integrity Commission, as part of your… developing file."
Each word fell sharp and vindictive, like a gavel striking stone.
She bent low, tapping her parchment with the tip of her wand; the ink shimmered and curled across the page, his name appearing at the top—DREYSE, ALDEN GELLERT—underlined twice in gleaming pink.
The sight of it sent a ripple through the room. A tangible shift, as though everyone suddenly realized they were witnessing something dangerous, something official.
Alden could feel every eye on him. The air was thick with it—the curiosity, the fear, the disbelief.
Daphne's hand brushed against his under the desk; it was barely a touch, but it steadied him. Across from them, Theo had gone still, his expression unreadable save for the faintest flicker of warning in his eyes: Don't push it further. Draco looked unsettled, caught somewhere between indignation and unease. Even Pansy, ever eager for spectacle, looked faintly alarmed.
Alden rose slowly. The scrape of his chair against the flagstone sounded loud in the suffocating quiet.
He smoothed his sleeve, every motion deliberate. When he finally spoke, his tone was soft, controlled, but carried through the room like a spell.
"Of course, Professor," he said. "If that's what the Ministry requires."
He paused—long enough for her to think, briefly, that the moment was over. Then he met her eyes.
"But I do hope," he continued quietly, "that you remember what I said."
Her quill froze mid-stroke.
"We both know what the Ministry is doing," Alden went on. "They're hiding the truth. Voldemort's return. And to make the lie easier to swallow, they've found themselves a convenient villain."
A tremor of whispers rippled through the classroom.
He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. Each word carried clean and clear across the desks, through the tension.
"You'll learn quickly enough," he said, "that every student in this castle already believes I'm the next Dark Lord. They whisper it in corridors, write it in their letters home. Perhaps"—he tilted his head, tone turning thoughtful—"you'd like to test that theory?"
Umbridge opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her fingers clenched around the quill until the feather bent.
"Unless, of course," Alden said softly, "you're afraid."
The silence cracked like ice under weight.
He took one step toward the door, his shadow stretching long across the flagstones. "Afraid of a boy the students whisper about. A boy the Ministry fears enough to investigate."
He reached the threshold and paused. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, almost gentle.
"Be sure, Professor," he said, looking back once, "that you're prepared for the consequences—if you ever decide to find out whether they're right."
He gave her a polite nod. "Good day."
And with that, Alden Dreyse walked from the classroom, leaving behind a silence so deep it rang.
Umbridge stood frozen, shaking, her knuckles white against the desk.
Outside, the echo of his footsteps faded down the corridor, but the chill he'd left behind lingered—like a dark wind curling through every mind in the room.
When she finally moved, Dolores Umbridge's smile was gone.