The Great Hall no longer resembled a school dining chamber. It felt colder now—emptier—despite the hundreds of students crammed along the benches. The torches had been dimmed to a wan, courtroom light, the enchanted ceiling mirroring the same steel-grey sky outside. Even the portraits that hung along the upper walls had fallen silent.
At the front, beneath the floating candles, the platform gleamed like a gallows of polished oak. Alden sat at its centre, wrists encased in bands of dark metal that pulsed faintly blue where they touched his skin. They were thin, almost delicate-looking things—yet every so often a filament of light ran across them, whispering softly like breath drawn through teeth.
Umbridge stood to the side, practically vibrating with satisfaction.
"Now then," she trilled, "let us all remember—this is an educational exercise. Nothing to fear!"
Her voice carried high and false across the hall. Students didn't believe her. Neither did the staff.
Selwyn, the Director, stepped forward. His expression was calm, but his wand was already in hand, tracing idle patterns in the air as though to remind everyone who controlled the space.
"For clarity," he said smoothly, "the subject's restraints are part of an approved verification charm. They do not inflict harm without cause."
His tone suggested that the cause could be found easily.
He turned to face the hall, his pale eyes sweeping the students, then fixing briefly on Alden.
"When truth is spoken, the runes remain dormant. When deception is detected…"—his gaze slid toward the faintly glowing bands—"…the artefact reacts proportionally. A pulse of magic—unpleasant, but informative."
A murmur of apprehension stirred the benches. One of the first-years whispered, "They shock you if you lie?" and was promptly hushed.
"There will be no need for alarm," Selwyn continued evenly. "Unless, of course, the subject feels inclined to… obscure the truth."
Vane, the hawk-eyed Inquisitor, stepped forward next, her voice thin and sharp as parchment tearing.
"It is a simple procedure. We begin with identity and proceed to conduct. The subject's cooperation will determine how… smoothly this goes."
Daphne's hand found Theo's beneath the table. "They're trying to make it look fair," she whispered. Theo only muttered, "He won't play along."
On the dais, Alden sat motionless, head bowed slightly, watching the faint shimmer of light around the cuffs.
"Ready?" Vane asked crisply.
He looked up then, meeting her gaze with a steady, almost bored expression. "As I'll ever be."
Selwyn nodded to Thorne, the youngest of the trio, who unfurled a scroll so long it brushed the floor. His quill hovered at the ready.
"State your full name for the record," Selwyn said.
Alden's voice carried clearly in the stillness. "Alden Dreyse."
The cuffs flared. A sudden blue shimmer ran through the metal, bright as lightning beneath water. The sound it made was like ice cracking.
Alden's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. The light faded.
Selwyn's eyebrow twitched upward. "Again. Your full name."
"Alden Dreyse," Alden repeated, louder this time.
The bands sparked again—longer, sharper. A ripple of whispers ran through the students. Someone laughed nervously before being elbowed quiet.
Selwyn's lips curved faintly. "The charm is quite precise, Mr. Dreyse. It registers heritage as well as habit. Now—once more, please. For accuracy."
Alden's eyes flickered toward him, cool and flat. "You want me to say what you've already written."
Selwyn said nothing.
For a long moment, the only sound was the low hum of the cuffs. Then Alden exhaled through his nose, the breath slow and measured.
"Alden Dreyse… Grindelwald."
Gasps rose like a wave. Parchment rustled, and even the ghosts leaned closer.
The bands glowed briefly—then went still.
Selwyn inclined his head, perfectly polite. "Thank you for your honesty."
Behind him, Umbridge clasped her hands as though suppressing applause. "Ah, see? The artefact confirms! Isn't it marvellous, children, to watch truth in action?"
Her grin met a sea of uneasy faces.
Alden sat very still. His fingers twitched once against the cuffs. The faint smell of ozone hung in the air.
Vane took the next question, voice all clipped professionalism.
"Your wand, please."
She held out her hand. With a flick of Selwyn's wrist, Alden's wand rose from his pocket, floating neatly to her palm. Its ebony surface caught the light like oil.
"Thestral hair and basilisk scale," she read from the notes Umbridge had prepared. "An unusual combination. Dual cores are… unstable."
Alden's tone was calm. "Only in the wrong hands."
The cuffs gave a muted hiss of light—more a warning than punishment.
"Careful," Vane murmured, almost pleasantly. "Deflection can be mistaken for deceit."
Daphne shifted in her seat, face pale. Theo muttered, "Bloody vultures."
Selwyn moved closer to Alden's chair, lowering his voice, though the hall could still hear.
"Do you understand why you are here, Mr. Dreyse?"
Alden looked up at him through the fringe of white-silver hair. "I was told it was an educational exercise."
A faint tremor of laughter ran through the hall, quickly smothered.
Selwyn's mouth twitched. "Then allow this to be a lesson in cooperation."
He raised his wand; the cuffs flickered again, a thin thread of light crawling up Alden's sleeve. The boy stiffened fractionally, eyes darkening, but no sound left his throat.
"You see?" Selwyn said softly, turning to the students. "When one resists truth, the charm reminds them of its importance. Nothing more."
McGonagall rose halfway from her chair. "Director Selwyn," she said sharply, "I trust you remember that this is a child, not a convict."
"Of course," Selwyn replied, all politeness. "Our aim is enlightenment, Professor, not discipline."
He turned back to Alden. "Now, tell us—your thoughts on the Ministry of Magic."
Alden's eyes flicked toward Umbridge, then back. "I think," he said, slowly, "that you're afraid."
The cuffs flared white. He drew a quick, sharp breath through his teeth, shoulders tightening, but didn't cry out.
Selwyn smiled thinly. "Afraid of what, precisely?"
"Of being irrelevant."
Another flash—shorter, but sharper. The smell of burned ozone deepened. Alden's fingers curled against the arm of the chair.
Vane leaned in, voice sweet and terrible. "Lying again, Mr. Dreyse?"
He met her gaze with quiet defiance. "Or perhaps I'm just right."
This time the cuffs pulsed once—slow, warningly—and subsided.
Whispers swirled like wind through leaves: He's bleeding… Look—his hands…
Alden flexed his fingers once. Tiny droplets of red traced the metal, shining briefly before vanishing against the wood.
Selwyn's tone never changed. "The artefact does not err, Mr. Dreyse. I suggest you remember that."
Dumbledore's voice finally broke through, mild but heavy as thunderclouds.
"And I suggest you remember that this artefact is being used under my roof. Do not mistake tolerance for consent, Director."
The hall froze.
Selwyn inclined his head again, the perfect bureaucrat's bow. "Of course, Headmaster. We are merely gathering truth."
He turned back to Alden. "Let's proceed."
Alden exhaled, a thin wisp of breath in the cold light. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost conversational.
"By all means," he said. "Let's show them how much truth you can bear."
And with that, the next question began—softly, inexorably—while the faint, steady trickle of red beneath his chair went unnoticed by most. But not by Dumbledore.Not by Snape.And certainly not by the friends watching, pale and silent, as the Ministry's idea of education continued.
The questions began easily enough—on parchment, at least. But nothing about the hall felt easy. The torches burned low, shadows slipping like oil along the stone walls. The whole castle seemed to be holding its breath.
Selwyn stepped forward again, scroll in hand, his voice smooth and almost kind.
"Let us continue, Mr. Dreyse. This is not punishment—it is clarity. The Ministry merely wishes to understand where your loyalties lie."
Alden tilted his head. "You'll need more parchment, then."
A few nervous titters fluttered from the Slytherin table. The cuffs hissed faintly in response—one small, sharp spark that drew a quick breath between Alden's teeth. The light bled down the chains like molten ice.
Selwyn pretended not to notice.
"To whom do you owe allegiance, Mr. Dreyse? The Ministry of Magic?"
Alden's reply came instantly, as if he'd prepared it long ago.
"Earn it."
The cuffs flared. A thread of light streaked up his forearms; his shoulders jerked once, the sound small but unmistakable.
Selwyn's mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
"Defiance does not serve you."
"Neither," Alden murmured, voice still calm, "does blind faith."
This time the spark came quicker, the light fierce and brief. His jaw locked; breath hissed out between clenched teeth.
Daphne gripped the edge of the bench so hard her knuckles went white. Theo leaned forward, whispering, "He's going to get himself crucified."
Pansy swallowed, whispering something about stopping it—though her voice barely left her throat.
From the staff table, Snape sat very still. His hands steepled before his mouth, eyes sharp, but there was the faintest flicker of grim amusement beneath them. McGonagall's lips had vanished entirely.
Selwyn's quill moved. "We'll take that as a no."
He looked up again, polite as ever. "And your view of Hogwarts leadership?"
Alden exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Stronger than the Ministry's, apparently."
The cuffs sang this time—a deep, resonant hum that crawled up the air. Alden's back stiffened; his hands clenched against the chair arms. Blue light danced along the runes before dying away.
Gasps rippled through the students; even the ghosts drew back.
Umbridge turned to the hall, sugary and triumphant.
"You see, children? Even now, he refuses to show respect for authority!"
The room buzzed in agreement and discomfort.
Alden gave a thin, humourless smile. "You'd know a lot about respect, I imagine."
The cuffs spat a bright crack of light. His breath caught; colour drained from his face, but he held her gaze.
Selwyn's quill hesitated mid-stroke. "Restraint, Mr. Dreyse," he warned softly.
"Forgive me," Alden said, tone light, mocking. "I forgot this was an educational demonstration. Should I raise my hand first?"
A few Slytherins tried not to laugh; Tracey's hand flew to her mouth to stifle it.
Umbridge's eyes flashed pink with fury.
"This insolence is precisely what the Ministry cannot abide! These… attitudes spread like contagion!"
Snape's smirk deepened. His fingers drummed idly on the table, concealing the tension in his jaw.
Selwyn ignored her and paced slowly before Alden's chair, robes whispering.
"Let us try something simpler. Do you consider yourself loyal to the wizarding world?"
Alden's eyes narrowed slightly. "Define loyal."
The cuffs gave a soft warning hiss.
"To its laws. Its traditions."
"Some deserve to be broken," Alden said plainly.
The pulse was immediate. His hands spasmed once; the chains groaned against the chair. Veins stood stark at his throat for a moment before subsiding.
Snape's eyes flickered to the runes, then to Alden's face. His expression tightened, fingers gripping the arm of his chair. Umbridge noticed.
"Concerned, Professor Snape?" she purred sweetly. "Your protégé seems to have difficulty telling the truth."
Snape turned his head slowly, black eyes glinting.
"My concern, Madam Umbridge," he said, voice a blade, "is that the truth may not survive your definition of it."
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the hall. Then Selwyn broke it, serene as ever.
"Let us proceed," he said. "Mr. Dreyse, how would you describe your relationship with authority figures?"
Alden gave a soft snort. "Complicated."
Another flash; he inhaled sharply.
"More specifically," Selwyn pressed, "with Professor Umbridge?"
Alden tilted his head, meeting Umbridge's expectant gaze. "Educational."
A short, savage hiss from the cuffs; the light danced again. This time, he grunted quietly, chest heaving once before steadying.
Selwyn's brow furrowed, as though puzzled by the results. "Curious. The artefact disagrees."
"Then it's as delusional as your Ministry," Alden muttered.
The next pulse hit harder—his teeth clenched audibly, breath leaving him in a hiss. The cords in his neck stood out sharply, pale veins threading up beneath his skin.
From the back, Theo muttered, "Merlin, he's still mouthing off."Daphne shot him a look. "He's making a point."Theo shook his head. "He's causing pain."
Umbridge turned back to the hall, cheeks flushed, voice syrupy with delight.
"You see, students? This is what happens when arrogance meets accountability. The artefact never lies."
Alden raised his head, eyes shadow-dark but steady. "No," he said softly, "but it listens to the loudest voice."
Another spark—short, cruel. His hands trembled against the wood, blood beginning to bead around his wrists where the cuffs had tightened.
Dumbledore's gaze had not left him once. His expression was unreadable, ancient sorrow mingling with something like pride.
Selwyn rolled up his parchment, voice low and formal.
"The Ministry thanks you for your cooperation, Mr. Dreyse. Let us move on to your beliefs—since those, it seems, are the source of such interest."
Alden inhaled slowly, the faintest of smirks ghosting across his lips despite the tremor in his hands.
"By all means," he said. "Let's see what else I'm guilty of thinking."
The torches flickered, the cuffs hummed again—and the demonstration went on.
Selwyn adjusted his spectacles, his voice calm, cultured, as though they were discussing something as harmless as schoolwork.
"We've heard your opinions on authority," he said. "Let us now consider your beliefs—specifically, your beliefs about magic."
Alden's lips curved faintly. "You'll find I have quite a few."
The cuffs pulsed softly, a warning tremor. He barely blinked.
Selwyn paced slowly before the dais, parchment in hand.
"Reports suggest that you have, on several occasions, used spells considered… unconventional. Curses of questionable origin. Is that accurate?"
"If by unconventional you mean effective, then yes."
A ripple of uneasy laughter travelled down the Slytherin table. The cuffs hissed again, but Alden's smile didn't waver.
Vane leaned forward from the side, her quill poised.
"And you see nothing wrong with employing Dark magic?"
Alden tilted his head. "Define Dark."
That earned him a sharper jolt; his jaw locked, the sinews in his neck tightening. He inhaled through his teeth but kept speaking, his voice lower now, roughened but steady.
"Magic isn't good or bad. It's power. What matters is why you use it—and whether you can live with yourself after."
Selwyn's eyes gleamed. "Convenient philosophy. And where, precisely, did you learn such wisdom?"
"From my family library," Alden said, without hesitation. "There's a book by Mathius Grindelwald—Gellert's younger brother. Magicless, though hardly powerless. He asked questions the Ministry still won't."
He leaned back in the chair, as much as the cuffs allowed, his voice taking on that slow, deliberate cadence that always carried more weight than shouting.
"He wrote that no spell is born evil. A charm to mend flesh can be twisted to prolong pain. A curse meant to wound might save a life in war. Magic doesn't decide—it only obeys."
A hum of murmuring broke across the hall. The older students leaned forward; the younger ones looked frightened. Even Flitwick's brow furrowed, intrigued despite himself.
Umbridge's painted smile wobbled. "Such… dangerous relativism, Mr. Dreyse," she simpered. "You suggest there is no moral difference between healing and harm?"
Alden met her gaze, expression calm. "I'm saying the difference lies in the one who casts it."
The cuffs brightened again; he winced, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as a tremor ran through him. When he opened them, the humour was gone, replaced by something colder.
"I entered the Tournament last year to prove that. To show that mastery of magic isn't about purity or bloodlines, or whether your spell glows blue or green. It's about intent—and control."
Selwyn's quill scratched furiously across the parchment. "Control," he repeated. "An interesting word, considering what occurred in the graveyard."
A low murmur swept through the students—some curious, some afraid.
"You mean when I survived," Alden said evenly.
The cuffs hissed again. A flash of light snapped through the chain links; he stiffened, teeth clenched, but didn't cry out. A thin trickle of red slid down from beneath his sleeve.
Theo muttered under his breath, "He's going to get himself killed."
Daphne whispered back, "He's making them listen."
Selwyn ignored the reactions. "You claim to have dueled the Dark Lord himself."
"Claim?" Alden echoed softly.
Selwyn spread his hands, all false sympathy. "Mr. Dreyse, the Ministry believes you were simply… confused. Traumatised. It would be quite understandable for a boy your age to imagine grandeur."
Alden gave a sound that might have been a laugh—low, breathless. "I imagine grandeur when I sleep, Director. I imagine screams and fire and the smell of blood burning on stone. Does that sound like confusion?"
The cuffs erupted in a bright flare of blue-white light. He jerked once, a hoarse breath escaping before he steadied himself again, head bowed. When he lifted his face, his skin was pale, veins sharp beneath the surface.
"The artefact says lie," Vane said crisply.
"Then your artefact needs glasses," Alden rasped.
Umbridge rose from her chair, pink bow trembling. "Enough of this insolence! He's—he's provoking the artefact!"
Snape's hand closed around the armrest of his chair; his knuckles went white. "Perhaps it's the artefact provoking him," he muttered, voice low but carrying.
Selwyn continued, unbothered. "Then tell us, Mr. Dreyse—if magic is neutral, what of those who wield it for evil? Are they innocent, too?"
"No," Alden said. "But neither are the ones who wield it for good. Intent shapes action, but resolve decides what it makes of you."
His voice had gone quieter now, the defiance stripped back to something that sounded almost weary.
"When I fought him, I thought the world was simple—light, dark, right, wrong. But magic isn't a sword. It's a mirror. You use it, and it shows you yourself."
The cuffs shimmered again but did not strike; the air quivered with their faint hum, as though even they hesitated to judge that answer.
The silence that followed was different this time—not fear, not mockery. Something closer to understanding lingered at the edges.
Umbridge broke it first, clapping her hands sharply. "Well! Such philosophy from one so young. Perhaps next he'll be teaching ethics to Azkaban."
Snickers rose from a handful of Slytherins near the front, but they faltered quickly under Snape's glare.
Selwyn regarded Alden for a long moment, then said softly,
"And yet, Mr. Dreyse, you wield such neutrality to excuse monstrosity. You study the forbidden, you test boundaries, and call it enlightenment."
"No," Alden said. "I study what others are too frightened to understand. Fear isn't a virtue."
The cuffs pulsed—gentler this time, a flicker that made him shiver but left his words unbroken.
Dumbledore's voice came quietly from the staff table.
"It seems, Director, that Mr. Dreyse understands the ethics of power better than most men twice his age."
Selwyn's quill froze mid-scratch. Umbridge looked as though she'd swallowed a lemon whole.
Alden lowered his head, eyes shadowed beneath pale lashes. A small, sardonic smile curved his mouth.
"Finally," he murmured, "someone listening."
And though the next question was already forming on Selwyn's lips, the Great Hall seemed to pause—as if the castle itself were waiting to see just how far he would go.
For a long while, the only sound in the Great Hall was the scratching of Selwyn's quill and Alden's low, steady breathing. Then Selwyn rolled the parchment shut, tucking it beneath one arm, and spoke softly.
"Belief is one thing," he said, voice calm and faintly dangerous. "But belief must be measured against evidence."
He turned to Vane and held out his hand. "Bring me the wand."
A hush rippled across the room. Alden's wand had been resting on a velvet cushion beside Umbridge since the start of the session—its ebony length gleaming darkly against the pink fabric, the silver guard glinting in the torchlight. Vane picked it up gingerly, as if afraid it might bite.
Selwyn drew his own wand and tapped Alden's once on the temple. "For the record," he said, "this is an official demonstration of Magia Revelare Totalis—a full-spectrum incantation trace. It will reveal spells cast by this wand within the last twelve months."
Dumbledore's brows lifted. "A dangerous variant of Prior Incantato, if I recall correctly."
Selwyn smiled faintly. "We are licensed for it."
Alden sat back against the chair, eyes cool. "Licensed doesn't mean competent."
The cuffs hissed; he flinched slightly, but didn't retract the jab. Snape's lips twitched behind his fingers.
Selwyn ignored him. "Watch closely," he said to the hall. "Truth is most persuasive when it reveals itself."
He raised Alden's wand to eye level, pointed his own at the tip, and intoned clearly,
"Magia Revelare Totalis!"
A surge of silver light burst from both wands. The air above them warped, twisting like heat haze. Then, slowly, shapes began to form—ghostly phantoms of spells, each suspended in midair, layered one over the other like ripples through time.
At first, they were familiar: Accio, shimmering faintly as quills and scrolls fluttered across the illusion; a simple Transfigurare Minor, turning parchment to glass; small, harmless acts of classroom study.
Students exhaled in collective relief. But the comfort didn't last.
The next flicker came darker, sharper. The light shifted from gold to a deep, unnatural silver. The illusion rippled and reshaped itself into a graveyard cloaked in fog.
Gasps echoed across the hall.
The vision wasn't perfect—details blurred, faces obscured—but it was enough. The phantom of Alden Dreyse stood in the centre of the storm, silver hair ghost-pale, wand raised. Spells erupted around him in impossible arcs.
A black dome of energy expanded outward—silent and total—swallowing a burst of crimson flame.
"Umbra Velo Suprema!" Selwyn read from the list unfurling beside him. "A shadow-based barrier of… unknown composition."
"Unclassified," Vane corrected sharply. "Forbidden."
Daphne's breath caught audibly. Theo whispered, "He—he actually made a dome?"
Flitwick was leaning forward now, eyes wide behind his spectacles. "Extraordinary magical control," he murmured. "That field collapsed both opposing streams—how did he stabilize it?"
Umbridge rounded on him immediately. "Professor Flitwick!" she squeaked. "You are not to admire it!"
But the illusions went on. A streak of white-blue light sliced through the darkness, ringing like struck glass.
"Gelum Filum," Selwyn recited. "Frost filament—a variant of the Severing Charm, only… colder."
The vision shifted again. Alden staggered, raised his wand with bloodied fingers. A crimson circle blazed under his feet, skeletal hands erupting from the ground.
Students shrieked; one of the younger Gryffindors clapped his hands over his eyes.
"Sanguinis Vincta." Vane's voice trembled slightly. "Binding by blood. These are rituals, not spells!"
Selwyn's gaze sharpened, fascinated. "No wandwork beyond the initial sigil. The resonance alone must have anchored it."
"Anchored?" Umbridge snapped. "He's conjuring the dead!"
Alden spoke then, quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Not conjuring. Defending."
The cuffs flashed blue; he grunted softly, jaw tightening.
The projection flickered again. Stone and dust spiralled as gravestones rose like soldiers. A cascade of green-white fire cut through the smoke.
"Noctis Ensis," Selwyn murmured, almost reverently. "A blade spell. Pure will condensed into form."
The hall fell utterly silent. The illusion showed the spectral figure of Alden driving forward through a storm of unseen curses, shadowfire arcing from his wand like a sword. The next instant, the vision shattered into a bloom of white frost and silence.
Even the torches seemed to dim.
"Oblivionis Surge." Vane's voice cracked slightly. "That final pulse—no signature match in any known registry."
Umbridge rose, trembling with outrage. "This—this is proof enough! These are not the actions of a student, but of a Dark practitioner! He's been experimenting with unlicensed magic—perhaps even developing it!"
The students erupted in noise—fear, disbelief, fascination. The Ravenclaws craned forward to memorise the runes. Hufflepuffs whispered prayers. Slytherins sat divided: half admiring, half horrified.
Snape had gone very still. His face was composed, but one hand was clenched so tightly the tendons stood out white against the skin.
Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice soft but carrying through the storm.
"Director Selwyn. I believe the demonstration has achieved its point."
"Indeed it has," Selwyn said smoothly, though his eyes gleamed with something far colder than satisfaction. "We have seen the truth of the boy's power—and the danger of it."
Alden sat motionless, the light from the fading illusion washing pale across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but laced with iron.
"You asked for evidence," he said. "You got it. You just don't like what it says."
The cuffs hissed once more—bright and sharp—and his back arched against the chair, breath catching hard. Veins stood out along his throat, blue and stark. But when the light faded, he was still upright, still defiant, eyes blazing silver-green.
Across the hall, even Dumbledore's expression had changed—no longer surprise, or pity, but something older and more dangerous. Recognition.
Selwyn turned toward the students, his voice rising in measured, official tones.
"You have all witnessed what happens when power is left ungoverned. This is why the Ministry acts. This is why the Lineage Integrity Authority exists."
He lowered Alden's wand, the phantom images dissipating like smoke. "To ensure that none among us—no matter their bloodline—ever rise to threaten the balance again."
A hush followed, deep and uneasy.
Alden's reply came softly, but it carried all the same.
"Then you'd better start locking up half this room."
The torches flared, shadows quivered, and for a moment no one—not even the ghosts—dared to breathe.
No one spoke at first. Even the portraits seemed to have hidden themselves behind their frames.
Then the murmurs began.
They came like a rising tide—whispers slipping down the benches, overlapping, changing shape and meaning with each mouth that spoke them.
"Did you see that one— the red sigils?""He made the ground move—move!""That was a killing curse, it had to be—""It wasn't! It looked—different—""Different how? He's a Grindelwald, isn't he?"
The room buzzed with equal parts awe and dread.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley's face was flushed, eyes wide with an ugly kind of excitement.
"Told you, didn't I?" he muttered to Seamus and Dean. "Dark as they come. Look at that— he's practically proud of it."
Hermione shook her head, her expression tight, uneasy. "You didn't see what those spells were doing. They weren't— he wasn't attacking for sport."
"He's dangerous," Ron insisted, voice louder now, though his hands trembled around his fork. "If You-Know-Who's really back, how d'you know he isn't working for him?"
Harry didn't answer. He sat rigid, his eyes still on the dais. The images had struck him harder than he cared to admit. He'd seen Alden's face in that ghostly vision—white with strain, eyes blazing, every movement desperate and precise. That wasn't the face of someone serving Voldemort. It was someone fighting him.
But the rest of the hall didn't see that. They saw darkness and power, and in a world already on edge, that was enough.
Across the aisle, Draco Malfoy was pale, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. "Merlin," he muttered under his breath. "And I thought Father exaggerated."
Pansy's hands were clasped tight around her knees. "He could've— he could've killed someone with that last one."
Theo gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "He nearly did."
Daphne, sitting beside them, hadn't spoken at all. Her blue-grey eyes were fixed on Alden, who hadn't moved since the final spell faded. His head was slightly bowed, the faint pulse of blue light still flickering along the cuffs.
"He looks like he's somewhere else," she whispered.
Theo nodded grimly. "Probably back there."
Tracey shook her head, her voice trembling despite herself. "We knew he was strong, but— that? That wasn't a strength. That was… something else."
The professors were just as divided. Flitwick's face was unreadable, equal parts alarm and admiration. McGonagall looked as if she were fighting the urge to step between Alden and the Ministry agents. Sprout had gone pale. Snape sat rigidly still, the tendons in his jaw flexing every few seconds.
Umbridge, meanwhile, was beaming as though Christmas had come early.
"You see?" she simpered to Dumbledore. "You see what kind of influence you've allowed to fester here? If this is what Hogwarts produces—"
"Enough."
Dumbledore's single word cut through the noise. It wasn't loud, but it rolled through the room like thunder. Even the air stilled.
His eyes, half-moon and ancient, turned toward Alden. "Mr. Dreyse," he said softly, "are you well?"
A long pause. Then—
A sound broke the silence.
It started as a low chuckle—barely audible at first, more breath than voice. Heads turned, students craning to see. The sound grew, quiet but steady, echoing strangely in the hollowed hush of the hall.
Alden Dreyse was laughing.
He sat slouched in the interrogation chair, blood drying beneath his cuffs, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion—and yet, he was laughing. Not cruelly. Not madly. But with something sharper and colder—resignation wearing the shape of amusement.
The laughter spread like a spark through dry grass, igniting fresh whispers.
"He's lost it.""He's mocking them.""He's enjoying this—"
Selwyn's expression did not change, but his grip on his wand tightened. "Something amusing, Mr. Dreyse?"
Alden lifted his head. His hair hung loosely into his eyes, silver strands catching the flicker of torchlight. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, but his smile was intact.
"I just realized," he said softly, voice carrying through the hall despite its calm. "I could cast every spell you've ever feared… and you'd still never understand what any of them meant."
The words hung there, crystalline and dangerous.
Theo muttered, "Oh no," under his breath.
Snape's fingers pressed to his temple, hiding a grim smile. Dumbledore's eyes closed briefly, as though he'd foreseen it hours ago.
And at the staff table, Umbridge's face twisted into something halfway between outrage and delight. "Oh, you'll explain exactly what you mean, Mr. Dreyse," she purred. "Right now."
Alden looked up at her, eyes glinting faintly silver-green. "Gladly."
The laughter was gone now, replaced by that terrible, measured calm—the kind that made the air around him feel colder, thinner, dangerous.
Every student leaned forward. Every professor froze.
And the Great Hall waited, braced for the moment Alden Dreyse would finally stop playing along.