The castle felt alive. Excitement pulsed through the corridors like static before a storm. Even the portraits seemed restless — whispering, shifting frames to catch glimpses of passing students. The Great Hall glowed brighter than it had all term, every candle burning to a perfect flame. Polished silver gleamed from the tables. The smell of wax, bread, and polish mingled with something electric in the air: anticipation.
By the time Alden and the rest of Slytherin filed in, the hall was nearly full . The enchanted ceiling above shimmered with a dusk-sky violet, streaked by faint ribbons of cloud. The banners — green and silver for Slytherin, crimson and gold for Gryffindor, blue and bronze, yellow and black — hung heavy and proud. Students spoke in a feverish low hum that rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
Theo dropped into a seat beside Alden, glancing around. "Feels like they're expecting royalty."
Draco grinned as he took the spot opposite. "Well, technically, they are. The Beauxbatons headmistress is half-giantess. Makes Hagrid look like a garden gnome."
Daphne rolled her eyes, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "You've never even seen her, Draco."
"I read," he replied, looking offended. "And Father's spoken of her. Says she could crush a troll if she wanted."
Theo smirked. "Finally, a woman who could keep up with you."
Draco ignored him, scanning the upper tables. "Can't believe it's actually happening — Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, in Hogwarts. Imagine the duels. Imagine the competition."
Alden said nothing at first. He sat with his posture straight but unforced, hands folded lightly on the table. His eyes moved over the room — not the decorations or the food, but the people. The way every House leaned inward toward its own center, voices blending in waves. The smell of excitement. Fear. Ambition.
"It's different," he murmured finally.
Theo looked up. "What is?"
"The air," Alden said. "It's heavier tonight. Magic's… awake."
Theo frowned. "That's a weird thing to say."
"Is it?" Alden asked softly. "Every wand in this hall has been humming all evening. Hogwarts can feel it too — the anticipation. You ever notice how she reacts to us?"
"She?" Daphne echoed, an amused tilt to her voice.
"The castle," Alden said. "She's alive. You just have to listen."
That silenced them for a heartbeat — even Draco, who studied Alden with a look halfway between curiosity and disbelief.
Before anyone could answer, a sharp bark of laughter erupted from the Gryffindor table. Fred and George Weasley were on their feet, a pouch of Galleons open in George's hand.
"Ten to one Durmstrang arrives first!" Fred shouted. "Any takers?"
"Five says Beauxbatons!" someone from Ravenclaw called back.
"Put me down for Beauxbatons," Draco said instantly. "Durmstrang's dramatic. They'll want to arrive last."
Theo gave him a side glance. "You're betting on punctuality?"
"No," Draco said with a smirk. "I'm betting on vanity."
The laughter around the tables built — Fred taking coins, George keeping tally on a floating parchment charm that zipped through the air collecting wagers. The noise filled the room like static, light-hearted but restless.
Alden leaned back, gaze drifting to the enchanted ceiling where a thin silver line traced across the clouds — a shooting star, fading fast. He watched it until it vanished.
Theo noticed. "Making a wish?"
Alden shook his head. "No. Just marking when it burned out."
Daphne's brow furrowed slightly, her voice half-teasing, half-thoughtful. "You think about the oddest things, you know that?"
"Someone has to," Alden said, tone even, not defensive. "Most people think about winning."
Draco grinned. "And you don't?"
"I think about how people win," Alden said quietly. "And why they believe they deserve to."
That stopped the table cold for a moment — not because it was particularly dark, but because of how calmly he said it. It didn't sound arrogant or bitter. Just matter-of-fact. Like gravity explaining itself.
Theo finally exhaled. "You really should write a book someday."
Alden almost smiled. "I'm still writing the first chapter."
Before Draco could fire back with something clever, the doors of the Great Hall swung open. The sound rushed in before the chill — dozens of footsteps echoing off stone, the murmur of the teachers taking their places near the back.
Dumbledore stepped forward, blue robes shimmering faintly in the candlelight. His voice carried with no effort, like it always did.
"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken," he said, eyes lifting toward the enchanted sky, "the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"
A wave of motion surged through the students as heads craned and benches scraped. Theo stood halfway to see better; Draco nearly climbed onto the bench.
"Where?" Daphne asked, standing on tiptoe.
"There!" shouted a sixth-year near the door.
Alden rose more slowly. The enchanted ceiling had changed — deep blue now, streaked with motion. Something vast moved beyond the clouds, a shadow of light and color that swelled as it drew closer.
The— the first glimmer of pale blue flame streaked through the air.
A hush fell, every conversation snapping shut in unison. The only sounds were the low murmur of wind and the faint, high whine of magic burning through the sky.
Daphne whispered, "That's not a broom."
Draco's grin spread. "No. That's a carriage."
Alden's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the magic rippling around it — the harness runes glowing gold, the energy signatures of the beasts pulling it. "Palomino pegasi," he said quietly. "French-bred. Fed on powdered moonstone."
Theo blinked. "You can tell that from here?"
Alden didn't answer. The carriage hurtled lower, the floor trembling as twelve winged horses the size of elephants crashed onto the grounds below with a thunderous impact. Gasps filled the room. A gust of wind swept through, making candles flicker and robes whip around legs.
For a long moment, the entire school just stared — thousands of eyes turned toward the lake, where a carriage the size of a manor settled into the grass, glowing faintly against the dark.
And in the chaos, Alden's expression didn't change. He was still, poised — watching not the spectacle itself, but the reaction it caused.
Draco's voice cut the silence, low but triumphant. "Told you. Beauxbatons first."
Theo rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself. "You're insufferable."
Daphne laughed softly. "And you love it."
Alden closed his journal, sliding it into his robes. "Come on," he said quietly, the faintest trace of curiosity threading through his tone. "Let's go see how the world looks when it lands."
The night air hit like cold glass. Thousands of breaths hung silver in the dark as the castle emptied onto the lawns. The crowd surged in uneven waves — cloaks dragging through dew, laughter bouncing off the stone walls, every face turned skyward. The ground itself seemed to hum underfoot, as if the soil recognized the weight of what was coming.
Alden walked near the edge of the pack, Theo beside him, Draco and Daphne a few paces ahead. He said nothing, eyes lifted. The clouds above rippled — not with thunder, but with light.
A shadow cut across the moon. It wasn't a broom, nor a bird. It was vast, rippling with blue fire that shimmered like silk underwater. Someone screamed."It's a dragon!" a first-year cried, voice shrill enough to carry."Don't be ridiculous, look at the wings—" another said, but the words died in their throat.
The shape dropped lower, resolving into something impossible: a carriage the size of a house, carved from sky-blue lacquer and gold, drawn by twelve colossal palomino pegasi, each one trailing ribbons of silver vapor from their wings. Their hooves flared like torches against the dark.
The air burned bright around them — hot, sharp, alive. Alden felt the magic prickle across his skin. Ancient craftsmanship, layered with control so delicate that even the horses' snorts left faint embers that spiraled before dying in the night.
The pegasi shrieked as they descended, wings thundering once, twice—then the earth shook. Grass and dust flew. Students stumbled backward, laughter and gasps colliding. The smell of ozone and perfume cut through the chill.
Daphne shielded her hair with her sleeve. "Honestly. They couldn't land quietly?"
Theo coughed, waving dust away. "It's France, Greengrass. Subtlety's banned."
Draco's grin was pure, unguarded wonder. "Look at them—real Beauxbatons robes. Actual silk. My mother's going to die when she hears."
"Assuming you survive telling her you were starstruck," Theo muttered.
Draco didn't even glance at him. He was already craning forward, elbowing a fifth-year out of the way for a better look. "Move, I can't see—"
The carriage door swung open with a creak that echoed across the lawns. For a moment, the only sound was the horses' breathing — each exhale steaming like smoke from a forge. Then a single black, high-heeled shoe touched the ground. The air seemed to be still.
And then she appeared.
Madame Maxime stepped down into the moonlight like a statue come alive. The first thing that struck Alden wasn't her height — though she rivaled the gate towers — but the precision of her movement. Controlled. Regal. The kind of authority that didn't demand silence; it imposed it.
Her black satin robes caught the wind and rippled like liquid armor, and opals gleamed at her throat, throwing back firelight in soft blues and greens. Her eyes swept the crowd once. Calm. Calculating. Entirely unafraid.
Beside Alden, someone whispered, "She's enormous."Another added, "She's beautiful."Both were right.
Behind her, a dozen Beauxbatons students emerged, all older, elegant, and trembling in the Scottish cold. Silk robes, powdered faces, and wide, unsure eyes. One girl sneezed delicately into a scarf that looked worth more than a broomstick.
Draco nudged Theo, smirking. "See? Vanity. They'll freeze before they admit they're uncomfortable."
Theo snorted. "At least they look good doing it."
The applause began softly, then built as Dumbledore strode forward from the steps, blue robes shimmering under torchlight."My dear Madame Maxime," his voice rang clear, warm. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
Her deep, accented reply rolled across the courtyard: "Dumbly-dorr. Hope I find you well?"
Polite laughter rippled through the students. Even Alden's mouth twitched — the faintest ghost of a smile.
As the exchange continued — opals flashing, Dumbledore bowing, the horses stamping — Alden's eyes lingered not on the spectacle, but on the runic glow along the carriage frame. Layers of protection,n charms, and levitation sequences, intricate enough to hum in the air.Old French enchantment — delicate but arrogant. Built for beauty, not war.
He memorized the sigil pattern as the last of the Beauxbatons line entered the castle behind their headmistress. The crowd parted to let them pass. Perfume, wind, and candlelight trailed in their wake.
When the doors shut behind them, the air seemed to empty of sound. For a moment, the whole of Hogwarts breathed in — collective awe suspended on one shared heartbeat.
Then Draco broke the silence. "They drink whiskey, apparently. For the horses."
Theo glanced over. "You asked?"
"I overheard," Draco said, too proud to admit curiosity. "Imagine the cost."
Daphne gave him a look. "Imagine the hangover."
Theo laughed. Alden didn't join in — his gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the stars trembled faintly above the lake.
He could feel something else. A new current beneath the excitement.The castle's heartbeat, pulsing faster.
The kind of anticipation that wasn't joy — but challenge.The kind that came before history was made, or broken.
Dumbledore's voice echoed once more, faint and amused:
"Ah — and unless I am very much mistaken… Durmstrang approaches as well."
The wind shifted. The torches guttered.And somewhere beyond the lake, the world began to rumble again.
For a moment after the Beauxbatons carriage disappeared into the castle, silence hung over the grounds — the kind of hush that falls when even the air seems to wait for something. The torches hissed faintly in their sconces. The crowd shifted in place, whispering, stamping their feet for warmth.
Then the wind changed.
It rolled cold and deep from the Black Lake, cutting through the chatter like a blade. Students turned toward the water instinctively. The moonlight pooled on its surface, still and black as glass — until the first ripple broke across it.
"Can you hear that?" Theo murmured.
Alden didn't answer. His eyes were already narrowing on the center of the lake, where the ripples thickened into concentric circles. The sound came next — a low, mechanical rumble, too rhythmic to be natural. The ground beneath their boots trembled softly, as something ancient had stirred below.
A voice somewhere behind them shouted, "Look — the lake!"
The crowd surged forward. Even Dumbledore turned slightly, his expression unreadable.
Out on the water, the surface began to boil. Great silver bubbles rose, bursting with muffled pops that sprayed cold mist into the air. Then — without warning — the lake collapsed inward.
A vortex spun open, dark and violent. Moonlight caught on something metallic within it — a mast, black as obsidian, rising from the depths like a spear. Chains clattered. The water frothed white.
Theo exhaled sharply. "Merlin's grave…"
The mast kept rising — followed by sails, then rigging, then the hull of a ship, vast and skeletal. It climbed from the depths with dreadful grace, water streaming off its sides in shining curtains. The wood gleamed wetly, as though it had only just remembered what it meant to breathe air.
Students gasped and stumbled back. Even the Beauxbatons horses in the distance reared, snorting clouds of steam.
"It's not sailing," Draco whispered. "It's… climbing."
"Resurrecting," Alden said quietly.
Theo turned to him. "What?"
Alden's gaze stayed fixed on the ship. "Durmstrang magic. They specialize in invocation through recall. The ship isn't sailing — it's remembering itself."
The word landed between them like a spark. Draco blinked. "Remembering—what are you talking about?"
Alden didn't answer. He was already watching the faint glow running along the ship's carvings — thin veins of light pulsing like blood through ancient runes. The enchantments weren't elegant, not like Beauxbatons' gilded glamour; they were coarse and old, born of survival, not spectacle.
With a final hiss and a roll of foam, the ship broke free of the lake entirely. It bobbed once on the surface, water sheeting off its decks. Then, as though invisible hands had seized it, the vessel glided silently toward the shore.
The anchor dropped with a heavy thud . A long gangplank extended with a metallic groan, slamming into the mud with finality.
And from the mist, the Durmstrang students appeared.
Their silhouettes were huge against the lantern-glow of the ship — tall figures wrapped in heavy cloaks of black and gray fur. Their boots struck the ground in perfect unison. Even their shadows moved with military rhythm.
Daphne folded her arms, unimpressed but wary. "They look like they hunt dragons for breakfast."
Draco leaned forward, eyes alight. "Or ride them. Look at the size of them!"
Theo gave a soft laugh. "That's not admiration — that's intimidation."
"Call it what you want," Draco said, "but that's presence."
Alden said nothing. His attention had fixed on the man leading them.
He was tall — nearly Dumbledore's height — with silver hair slicked back, a fur-lined cloak gleaming under the torchlight. His face was all angles, his goatee precise, his smile too smooth to be sincere.
"Karkaroff," Alden murmured.
Draco blinked. "You know him?"
"I know of him," Alden said softly, almost to himself. "Most people do."
Karkaroff strode forward with theatrical confidence, calling out before he reached the steps.
"Dumbledore! My dear friend! How are you, my dear fellow?"
His voice rolled across the lawn — unctuous, almost oily. Dumbledore's answering smile was kind but careful.
"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff."
The two shook hands, silver and blue sleeves blending like opposite ends of a spectrum. The murmurs of the crowd swelled behind them, awe and curiosity mixing in equal measure.
Karkaroff's students gathered in neat formation behind him, every movement disciplined. They didn't stare at the crowd the way Beauxbatons had. They assessed it — sharp eyes darting over each face like blades measuring distance to flesh.
Draco shivered despite himself. "You can feel it, can't you? They don't play."
Theo nodded. "No flair. Just power."
"They don't need flair," Alden murmured.
Theo glanced at him. "And you can tell that from one look?"
"From their silence," Alden said. His gaze lingered on the deck of the ship, where faint wisps of cold still rose from the soaked planks. "Power doesn't shout. It waits."
Daphne frowned, following his eyes. "Waiting for what?"
He turned slightly toward her, voice calm. "A stage."
Karkaroff was still talking to Dumbledore, his words all warmth and charm, but his eyes betrayed calculation. Then he beckoned one of his students forward — a boy broad-shouldered, his dark hair damp with mist.
When he stepped into the torchlight, half the crowd gasped.
"Viktor Krum," someone breathed. Draco's eyes went wide. "Bloody hell, that's Krum. The Viktor Krum."
Alden's expression didn't change. But his gaze sharpened slightly, studying the Bulgarian champion's posture — the way his wand hand rested naturally against his hip, not hidden but unguaranteed. A predator's confidence is honed young.
He found it… intriguing.
Beside him, Theo whispered, "Well, that answers the question of whether Durmstrang takes this seriously."
Draco grinned. "They sent a celebrity. We'll send a legend."
Theo looked over. "Meaning?"
Draco only smiled wider. "You'll see."
Alden didn't look at him — his focus still on the ship, on the wet runes dimming slowly as the last of its magic cooled. But inside, something had begun to stir — quiet, steady, inevitable.
Not excitement.Not even curiosity.Something heavier. The pull of inevitability, like gravity finding its center.
Behind him, the whispers had already begun.
"They say Durmstrang teaches dark spells.""They say their headmaster used to be a Death Eater.""You think Dreyse'll enter the tournament now? He'd fit right in with them…"
Alden heard every word. He didn't react.
The torches flared. The ship's anchor settled deep into the mud. And the castle, for the first time in years, felt smaller — as if it had been waiting for this convergence of past and future.
Dumbledore's voice rose one final time, smooth and clear:
"Welcome, all, to Hogwarts."
The applause came slowly — hesitant, respectful, filled with the weight of what had just arrived.
Alden didn't clap. He stood still amid the noise, watching the ripples fade across the lake's surface — the water settling back into black glass, concealing whatever depths had been disturbed.
In his reflection, torchlight gleamed along the silver in his hair. His face was calm. But his eyes — sharp, green-grey and unblinking — caught the light like something awakening.
The Great Hall shimmered like a jewel box. Every candle burned at its fullest height, casting molten gold across the long tables. The banners of all three schools had been unfurled, floating like captured breaths above the students: midnight-blue silk for Beauxbatons, deep crimson with silver threads for Durmstrang, and the familiar four House colors anchoring them all beneath the vaulted ceiling.
It wasn't a feast — it was a display.
Students leaned and craned, pretending to eat but really watching. Conversations wove together in a hundred hushed dialects: curiosity, gossip, appraisal. Knives clinked, goblets gleamed, and the air smelled of roast meat, polish, and foreign perfume.
Alden sat among the Slytherins, his posture relaxed, every motion precise. He cut into his food methodically, each slice measured — a rhythm steady against the hum around him.
Draco, on the other hand, was all restless energy. He'd twisted in his seat to get a better view of the Beauxbatons table, where the girls shimmered like moonlight — pale robes, soft laughter, hair like spun glass.
"Look at them," he murmured to Theo, eyes alight. "Actual elegance. Not like—"He waved a hand vaguely toward the Gryffindor table, where Seamus and Dean were already trying to charm a pair of Ravenclaws by juggling bread rolls.
Theo arched a brow. "You realize they're freezing, right?"
Draco didn't look away. "Suffering beautifully, then."
Crabbe snorted through a mouthful of roast. "Reckon they're too thin. Wouldn't survive a winter here."
"Which is the ?" Draco said sharply. "They're not meant to survive; they're meant to arrive. Style, Crabbe. Presentation."
Theo chuckled. "You sound like your mother."
Draco ignored that, too. He leaned across the table toward Alden, lowering his voice. "You're not even going to look? The one with the silver brooch—she's been staring this way for ten minutes."
Alden didn't glance up. He poured himself water, movements unhurried. "She's probably staring at you, Draco. Try not to faint."
Daphne smirked faintly from her place across the table, chin resting on her hand. "Or she's staring at me," she said, voice dripping with amusement. "You underestimate the appeal of being neither loud nor ridiculous."
Theo hid a grin behind his goblet. "Which excludes you from half this table."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You lot have no appreciation for fine art."
Alden lifted his gaze briefly — not toward the girls, but toward the Durmstrang table across the aisle. The flickering torchlight caught on the fur and steel of their cloaks, on the gleam of cold rings and the sharp, deliberate stillness of their postures. They ate like soldiers — no wasted motion, no chatter. Each one radiated discipline. Power that didn't needan announcement.
It was the opposite of Beauxbatons' grace. And precisely because of that, it held more gravity.
Alden studied their table quietly, eyes lingering for a fraction too long on Viktor Krum, who sat hunched slightly, brooding over his food. Even from across the room, Alden could feel the pressure in the air around him — not magical, but psychological . It reminded him of storms that built slowly, unseen, over open water.
Daphne followed his line of sight and spoke softly. "So that's him."
"Krum," Theo confirmed. "Draco's new idol."
"I admire greatness when I see it," Draco said defensively. "What, would you prefer I worship Potter instead?"
Theo smirked. "You already do — you just hate yourself for it."
Laughter rippled down the table. Even Alden's lips curved faintly at that. Draco scowled, cheeks coloring. "At least I'm not swooning over Durmstrang's fur coats."
Daphne leaned forward slightly, her voice airy but her eyes sharp. "Relax, Malfoy. No one's swooning. And Dreyse isn't even looking."
Draco turned to Alden again. "Seriously. You're not even curious?"
Alden's fork paused midair. He met Draco's gaze evenly. Curiosity requires interest. I have neither."
Theo let out a low laugh. "You could have just said no."
But Daphne didn't laugh this time. Her expression softened — not surprise, exactly, but something like quiet relief. She turned back to her plate, eyes hidden behind her lashes.
Across the hall, a murmur rolled through the crowd as the Beauxbatons girls giggled behind jeweled hands. One of the Durmstrang boys — broad-shouldered, scarred across one cheek — raised his goblet slightly in their direction. The girls dissolved into laughter. The Durmstrang table didn't.
Draco smirked. "See that? International diplomacy. Maybe that's one subject Hogwarts can't teach."
Theo shook his head. "Or one it teaches too well."
The professors at the high table were murmuring now — Dumbledore in calm conversation with Madame Maxime and Karkaroff. McGonagall looked harried, Filch hovered like a vulture by the doors, and Snape sat in composed silence, his dark eyes occasionally flicking toward the Slytherin table — not with disapproval, but watchfulness.
The noise rose and fell, blending laughter, languages, and clinking cutlery into something that sounded alive. The whole room pulsed with restrained tension — a battlefield of smiles.
Alden ate quietly through it all. He didn't avert his eyes; he simply didn't need to look twice. His mind mapped the room in movements, tones, angles of posture — Beauxbatons' fragile pride, Durmstrang's rehearsed stoicism, Gryffindor's noisy enthusiasm. Every thread weaving toward the same point: competition.
He could feel it brewing already — ambition, envy, fear. The way people began to compare themselves when the measure of worth arrived at their doorstep.
Theo noticed his silence. "You're thinking."
"I usually am," Alden said mildly.
"About what this time?"
Alden set down his fork, looking briefly toward the floating Goblet platform that hadn't been unveiled yet — its shape still covered by a velvet cloth. "About the difference between pride and purpose."
Theo blinked. "That sounds like one of your journal lines."
"Maybe it is."
Draco, halfway through his pumpkin juice, made a dismissive noise. "Or maybe it's just cryptic nonsense."
Alden's tone didn't change. "You'll find out which soon enough."
Daphne looked between them, sensing the shift. "And when we do?"
Alden's eyes flicked up — green-grey, cool, unreadable."When the fire's lit."
Draco frowned, not understanding. Theo hesitated, almost asking — but before he could, Dumbledore rose from the high table.
The hall fell silent instantly. The candles drew in their flames, the banners fluttered once.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said, voice filling the chamber. "To a year unlike any other."
A murmur rippled through the hall — quiet, eager, fearful.
Alden didn't move. He only listened — not to the words, but to the tone. The way even Dumbledore's warmth couldn't quite mask what everyone felt: the faint, thrilling, terrible knowledge that this year, Hogwarts would remember what danger felt like.
He lifted his goblet, the light catching his silver hair, and took a sip — steady, unbothered.
Draco leaned in, whispering, "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"
Alden's gaze stayed forward. "Not yet."
The plates vanished in a shimmer of gold. For a heartbeat, the Great Hall was perfectly still — a collective breath suspended beneath the floating candles. Then Dumbledore rose.
His robes caught the light as if the stars themselves had stitched them. Even silence seemed to lean closer.
"The moment has come," he said, smiling around the hall. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start."
The words struck like flint. Chairs creaked, voices died. Excitement swelled through the students in a pulse that Alden could feel — like the pressure before a storm breaks. Across the hall, Fred and George Weasley leaned forward, identical grins cutting through the glow.
Dumbledore's gaze swept the crowd, his tone steady, kind, commanding. "I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket—"
Draco leaned toward Theo, muttering, "The what?"
Theo shrugged. "Sounds expensive."
A ripple of laughter spread through nearby tables, soft and nervous. Dumbledore continued, unbothered.
"Before we begin, allow me to introduce two distinguished guests who have worked tirelessly on this year's arrangements — Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
Polite applause echoed. Crouch rose stiffly, every line of his face carved in discipline. He looked out of place in wizard's robes — the kind of man who belonged behind a desk, not in a hall glowing with firelight and a we. Bagman followed, all warmth and cheer, waving broadly to the crowd like a Quidditch hero at a victory lap.
Draco murmured under his breath, "That man could sell dirt to trolls."
Theo smiled faintly. "And your father would buy it if it were labeled pure-blooded."
Daphne hid a laugh behind her goblet. Even Alden's eyes glimmered, just once, before he returned his attention to the head table.
"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch will join me, Madame Maxime, and Professor Karkaroff in judging this year's champions," said Dumbledore.
The word champions spread like sparks through dry air. All around the hall, conversations ignited — muffled gasps, whispers, exchanged glances. Alden could feel the shift, the ambition waking in people's eyes. It was raw and human — and predictable.
Then came the thud.
Argus Filch shuffled forward from the shadows, clutching a great wooden casket crusted with jewels. The thing looked ancient, alive in its own way. Students craned their necks to see. Its hinges groaned as he set it down before Dumbledore, who rested one long hand on its lid.
"Inside this chest," Dumbledore said, "lies the instrument that will decide who among you is worthy to compete."
A hush fell again. Even the candles seemed to dim.
"There will be three tasks," he continued, "spaced throughout the year — testing courage, intellect, and the ability to cope with danger. Each school will select one champion, and they will compete for eternal glory — and, perhaps, the Triwizard Cup."
The silence that followed was not empty. It was hungry.
Alden could hear his classmates breathing — shallow, restless, the sound of hundreds of dreams turning in their minds. Draco's eyes were bright; Theo's, thoughtful. Across the hall, Hermione's quill hovered uselessly over a napkin she'd been doodling on. Harry Potter's hand gripped the edge of the table.
And Alden — Alden just watched. He measured the energy in the room, like one might study the movement of tides.
Dumbledore lifted his wand and tapped the chest three times. A low creak answered. The lid opened, and from its depths rose a cup — carved from rough wood, unremarkable except for what burned inside it.
A pale, blue-white fire.Alive. Dancing. Its light licked the edges of the Hall in ghostly waves.
Gasps rippled through the students. Even Draco leaned forward, entranced.
"The Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore said softly.
The flames shifted, illuminating his face in cool tones of blue and silver. For an instant, Alden thought he looked older — burdened, perhaps, by memories the room would never know.
"Anyone wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school on a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet. You have twenty-four hours to do so. Tomorrow night, at Halloween, the Goblet will return the names of the three champions it deems worthy."
He paused. The fire crackled. A faint trail of blue smoke curled upward, dissolving into the candlelight.
"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation, I will draw an Age Line around the Goblet once it has been placed in the Entrance Hall. Nobody under seventeen may cross it."
The words carried a quiet finality — or tried to . Alden could already feel the energy shift — temptation had only sharpened. Fred and George's faces lit up at once. Draco smirked knowingly, nudging Theo as if to say, we'll see about tha t. Even Daphne rolled her eyes, murmuring, "That rule won't survive the hour."
Alden didn't react. But the smallest trace of a smile ghosted his lips.
Dumbledore's voice deepened, almost solemn now.
"This tournament is not to be entered lightly. Placing your name in the Goblet is a binding magical contract. If chosen, you are bound to compete until the end. There can be no withdrawal, no second thoughts. Be certain of your resolve before you act."
That silenced even the Weasley twins. For the first time all evening, the hall felt still.
And in that stillness, Alden's gaze flickered — not to Dumbledore, nor the goblet, but to the fire itself. The flames twisted like thought — unpredictable, elegant, devouring, and alive. He could feel the magic radiating from it, layered, ancient. It wasn't impartial. It was sentient.
He found it… beautiful.
Dumbledore's smile returned, faint but real. "Now then — it grows late. I suggest we all get a good night's rest. Tomorrow begins a most extraordinary year."
He lifted his arms slightly. "Good night to you all."
Benches scraped, voices rose, and the great golden doors opened once more. Students spilled out into the corridors, buzzing with energy — ambition, bravado, fear.
"An Age Line," Draco muttered gleefully as they walked. "That's child's play."
Theo sighed. "You say that now."
Crabbe snorted. "If anyone could beat it, it's Dreyse."
Daphne gave a quiet, tired smile. "Don't start."
But Alden didn't answer. His mind was elsewhere — watching the glow still dancing on the edge of his memory. Blue-white fire, old and alive, daring him to step closer.
He would. Of course, he would.