The antechamber beyond the Great Hall was quieter than it should have been. Stone walls held the echo of the cheers that still rumbled faintly from the feast behind, a distant thunder trapped beyond the oak door. Here, the air smelled faintly of smoke and candlewax, the silence alive with the pulse of magic still lingering from the Goblet's choosing.
The room itself was circular — an older part of the castle, long before Hogwarts had learned the difference between grandeur and humility. Shadows reached across the floor in curling shapes, cast by a single chandelier of blue fire that hovered above the center table.
Viktor Krum was the first to look up as the door opened.
He stood near the wall, arms folded, the heavy folds of his Durmstrang cloak still dusted with ash from the Goblet's flame. His face was its usual granite calm, but his dark eyes flicked toward Alden with something sharper than boredom — appraisal.
At the far side, Fleur Delacour sat on the edge of a long stone bench, one leg crossed neatly over the other. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered in the dim light like liquid glass. She tilted her head when Alden entered, her expression a polite curiosity wrapped in grace.
Alden stepped in and closed the door behind him. The last of the noise from the Great Hall died away.
"So," Fleur said softly, her accent lilting, musical even when she wasn't trying. "You are the one who broke the Headmaster's age charm."
Her tone wasn't mocking — more intrigued, like a musician hearing an unfamiliar note played perfectly.
Alden didn't flinch under their scrutiny. He gave a short nod, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back.
"It was just a ward," he said simply. "Wards can be rewritten."
Fleur smiled faintly at that.
"And yet, no one else thought to try."
He met her eyes for a moment, then inclined his head slightly — not as challenge, but as respect.
"Most people don't study what they're told not to touch."
Krum made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
"You are younger than us," he said, his English thick but deliberate. "But I saw what you did. Not… luck. That was control."
Alden regarded him with quiet interest.
"You've seen enough duels to know the difference."
Krum's mouth twitched.
"Da. Most here think strength is louder. You do not."
Alden's reply came evenly, his tone soft, grounded — almost absent of ego.
"Noise is for the crowd. Precision is for the work."
That earned the smallest nod from Krum — the kind reserved for equals, not children.
Fleur watched the exchange with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"You speak like a philosopher, not a boy."
Alden's gaze drifted toward the Goblet's reflection on the wall — the last embers flickering faintly, the light painting blue across the stone.
"Maybe," he said after a pause. "But philosophy doesn't save you when fire breathes down your neck."
Fleur laughed softly. "I like you already."
He didn't answer the compliment. His expression remained composed — but his eyes softened, the faintest spark of humor catching there.
"Then we'll get along fine."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was measured — three minds weighing one another, curiosity balancing on civility.
Krum finally broke it.
"This Tournament… it is not for glory. You know that, yes?"
Alden nodded.
"I didn't enter for glory."
Krum studied him a moment longer, then gave a slow grunt of approval.
"Good. Then maybe you will last."
Fleur rose gracefully from the bench, brushing nonexistent dust from her pale blue robes. Her presence seemed to brighten the shadows themselves.
"Three champions," she said lightly. "Three schools. At least it will be interesting."
Alden met her gaze again — calm, unwavering, the faintest curve of confidence at the edge of his mouth.
"Interesting," he echoed quietly, "is one word for it."
The chandelier above flickered once, the blue fire throwing its shadows long across the floor.
None of them spoke after that. Each stood alone in thought — one forged by discipline, one by pride, one by purpose — waiting for the door to open again and the world to change with it.
The chamber's silence was a low hum now, the fire in the great hearth throwing restless light across the stone . Krum leaned against the mantelpiece, shoulders hunched, his shadow tall and uneven behind him. Fleur stood near the center, silver hair catching every flicker of flame, and Alden sat opposite, posture straight, hands folded loosely before him.
None of them spoke. The air between them had the charged quiet of three storms that had not yet decided if they would collide.
Then — the muffled sound of hurried footsteps beyond the door. It burst open a heartbeat later.
Harry Potter stumbled in, pale, wide-eyed, breath catching on the threshold.
Fleur turned first, brows lifting, her tone sharp with confusion.
"What is it? Do zey want us back in ze Hall?"
Harry's mouth opened, but no sound came. He looked from one to the next — Krum, Fleur, Alden — and froze.
He looked impossibly young under the firelight. His hands trembled slightly, caught between wanting to leave and not knowing if he was allowed.
Alden didn't move. He only regarded him, calm and quiet, the way one studies a ripple that's not supposed to exist in still water.
"He looks like he's seen a ghost," Krum muttered under his breath, low and heavy with suspicion.
The door banged again — Ludo Bagman bursting through, pink-faced and grinning, moving far too fast for the gravity in the room.
"Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary!" he declared, taking Harry by the arm as though parading him before a crowd. "Gentlemen — and lady!" he added, breathless. "May I introduce — incredible as it seems — the fourth Triwizard champion!"
The word fourth hung in the air like a curse.
Fleur's expression snapped from confusion to disbelief.
"A joke," she said flatly, tossing back her hair. "Very funny joke, Meester Bagman."
"Joke?" Bagman laughed nervously. "No, no — not at all! Harry's name came out of the Goblet! Just now!"
Krum straightened, his broad frame shifting away from the wall.
"Impossible," he said, accent rough as gravel. "Zee Goblet chooses only once. It obeys rules."
"It seems," Alden said quietly, his voice smooth and even, "the rules have grown forgetful lately."
Every eye turned to him. He wasn't smiling — not quite — but there was something in the angle of his gaze, calm and knowing, that made the firelight seem to bow toward him.
Fleur crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly.
"And you think zis is fair, non? 'E is too young. Just like you."
Alden's gaze didn't waver.
"Fairness is not what the Goblet measures," he said softly. "It remembers only names and intent."
Fleur's lips parted, but she found no reply. Krum's dark eyes flicked between Alden and Harry, trying to decide which one was the mistake.
Harry, still clutching the edge of the table, finally found his voice.
"I didn't put my name in," he said quickly, almost pleading. "I swear, I didn't—"
Alden tilted his head slightly. There was no judgment in his face, only that same quiet composure that unnerved professors and students alike.
"The Goblet doesn't care who writes the name," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Only those who mean it."
For a moment, Harry met his gaze — grey-green eyes meeting his own. There was something unreadable there, not cold, not cruel, just… seeing.
Bagman's voice broke the tension, babbling cheerfully over the crackle of the fire.
"Well! The rules are clear — when the Goblet names a champion, there's no going back. Four schools or not, we'll sort it all out!"
Krum exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something in Bulgarian that didn't sound approving. Fleur folded her arms tighter, expression turning elegant but cold.
Alden, though, remained where he was. He looked from Harry to the Goblet — the flames still guttering faintly in the corner, as though recovering from what it had just done.
His expression didn't shift. Not surprise, not suspicion. Only quiet calculation, a slow awareness unfolding behind the calm.
So it wasn't finished after all, he thought. The law still wants to be broken.
The sound of raised voices began to filter in from the corridor — Dumbledore's low timbre, McGonagall's sharper tone. They were coming.
Fleur looked back toward the door, sighing delicately.
"It seems the night is not over."
Krum leaned against the mantel again, eyes narrowing.
"No," he said. "It is only beginning."
Alden's gaze lingered on the Goblet a moment longer before he turned away. The flame inside it pulsed once — faint, like the echo of a heartbeat — as if answering him.
And beneath the noise rising outside, his thoughts were quiet and precise:
Every law fractures eventually.
The door to the antechamber swung open with force, and the murmur of hundreds of students from the Great Hall spilled into the small room — a wave of anxious voices muffled only when Professor McGonagall snapped the door shut behind her.
The chamber filled instantly: Dumbledore at the forefront, his robes still flickering faintly with the residual light of the Goblet's fire; Karkaroff, severe and sharp as a drawn blade; Madame Maxime towering beside him; Snape gliding in like a shadow; and Mr. Crouch pale and expressionless, already rubbing his temples.
The firelight made the room look too small for them all — flames bending around figures of power and accusation.
Fleur was the first to speak, her voice slicing through the tension.
"Madame Maxime!" she cried, striding toward her headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis child is to compete also!"
Her hand gestured sharply toward Harry, who stood near the wall, still pale and uncertain. Harry bristled faintly at the word child, but couldn't find the breath to respond.
Madame Maxime drew herself to her full, towering height — the chandelier brushing her hair. Her voice was as cold as the firelight that gleamed off her jewelry.
"What is the meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?"
Karkaroff's smile was thin and metallic.
"I'd like to know that as well," he said smoothly, stepping forward. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't recall the host school being granted such a—" he paused, his teeth glinting, "—privilege. Unless, of course, I missed that detail in your fair little rules."
A short, humorless laugh. Fleur folded her arms, nodding tightly.
"C'est impossible. 'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."
Dumbledore did not answer at once. His expression, usually calm as polished oak, had thinned into something taut — eyes flicking between Harry, Alden, and the fading shimmer of blue fire still visible through the open doorway to the hall beyond.
"It seems the Goblet has chosen… differently," he said at last, voice even but weary. "And we are bound by its magic to honor that choice."
Karkaroff's eyes narrowed, glacial and accusing.
"Bound? Or careless?"He turned, the motion deliberate. "We were all told you cast an Age Line, Dumbledore. An elegant barrier, yes? One that should have kept such… accidents from happening."
Snape's voice, soft and cutting, slid from the shadows.
"Accident, perhaps. Though the entire school did witness someone breaking that line before the feast began."
All eyes turned to him — and then, inevitably, to Alden.
Snape's dark gaze held something between pride and warning.
"Mr. Dreyse shattered your enchantment, Headmaster. In full view of every student. The spell recognized his will and yielded. I suggest," his lips curved faintly, "that not all rules are unbreakable."
Karkaroff's sneer twisted into disbelief.
"You're telling me this boy broke one of Albus Dumbledore's wards?"He looked Alden over as if he were inspecting a weapon. "And you allowed him to enter?"
Alden spoke at last — quiet, steady.
"I didn't ask permission, Professor. I only asked the magic to listen."
Madame Maxime scoffed.
"Pah! Tricks and arrogance. No boy of fourteen should be trusted wiz zat kind of power."
McGonagall, who had been silent until now, cut in sharply.
"Enough, Olympe. You saw what happened tonight. He crossed the line cleanly, and the Goblet accepted him. There's nothing trickish about mastery."
Her words hung in the air, surprising even herself. She glanced toward Dumbledore, almost as if regretting the defense.
Dumbledore drew a slow breath, his voice quieter now — too calm to be comforting.
"Intent guides the Goblet. It does not mistake courage for deceit. But… for both Alden and Harry to be chosen—"
"—is madness," Karkaroff finished coldly. "Or manipulation."
"Or design," Snape murmured.
Madame Maxime turned sharply toward him.
"Design? Are you accusing 'Ogwarts of deceit?"
Snape's dark eyes flicked toward the fire.
"Not Hogwarts. But perhaps… the Goblet itself was made to remember something it should have forgotten."
That drew Dumbledore's attention — a faint glimmer of recognition flickering in his eyes. Something it should have forgotten. He said nothing, but his gaze drifted to Alden, and for the first time that evening, his calm faltered.
There was a memory there — of blue fire, of stone shattering, of another boy who had once rewritten rules that were not meant to bend.
Harry, small between them all, finally blurted out,
"I didn't put my name in! I swear I didn't!"
The words hung in the thick air. Karkaroff folded his arms, his smile gone.
"How convenient," he said dryly. "One boy too young, another too silent — and both from Hogwarts."
McGonagall's patience broke.
"That's enough, Igor!" she snapped. "If Dumbledore believes Potter, that should suffice for all of us."
But Dumbledore wasn't looking at Harry anymore. He was looking at Alden.
The silver-haired boy met his gaze unflinchingly, calm as ever. No arrogance now, no smirk — only quiet poise, and something searching, almost reflective.
"Did you know this would happen?" Dumbledore asked softly.
Alden tilted his head, his voice even.
"I knew the line could be broken. I didn't expect the Goblet to break with it."
The room went very still.
Even Snape's eyes flicked up from his folded hands. Madame Maxime looked unsettled; Karkaroff frowned, as though he'd heard something he didn't like but couldn't disprove.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered, heavy with memory. Then he turned away, voice low.
"The Goblet does not err… only obeys intent. We shall proceed accordingly."
The fire crackled. Krum shifted, Fleur frowned, Harry swallowed hard — but Alden simply stood there, silent again, his expression unreadable.
The blue flames licked higher in the hearth, painting the stone walls in cold light. Outside the door, the murmur of the Great Hall swelled once more — the world waiting for answers none of them yet had.
The chamber was thick with tension now — the kind that warps the air and makes light seem sharper. The fire hissed in the hearth, spitting blue against stone, and every face in the room looked carved from it.
Karkaroff's voice came first, smooth and venomous.
"Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman," he began, folding his hands together in mock patience. "You are our objective judges, are you not? Surely you must see how… irregular this is?"
Bagman mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, his cheer faltering. Crouch stood in the shadow just beyond the firelight, thin as parchment, his expression unreadable — the hollows beneath his eyes giving him a skeletal look. When he spoke, his voice was clipped and hard.
"The rules are clear. Any name that emerges from the Goblet is bound to compete. Magical contract. It cannot be undone."
"Well!" said Bagman, far too brightly. "There we have it! Rule book and all — if Barty says it, that settles it."
Karkaroff's smile evaporated, and his voice hardened.
"Then I insist upon resubmitting names. If Hogwarts is permitted two champions, Durmstrang shall have the same right."
"The Goblet has gone out, Igor," Bagman said helplessly. "It won't reignite until the next Tournament—"
"Then Durmstrang will not be competing again!" Karkaroff snapped, face flushing with anger. "This farce—this insult—after all the negotiations, the arrangements, the trust—"
A voice cut through the uproar like gravel scraping metal.
"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled Moody from the doorway.
Every head turned as he limped forward, each step punctuated by the clunk of his wooden leg. The fire threw wild reflections across the scars on his face and the spinning electric blue of his eye.
"You can't back out now. The boy's bound by magic. They all are. The Goblet doesn't take suggestions; it takes names."
Karkaroff's lips curled.
"And who asked you, old man?"
Moody's mouth twisted into a grin that had no humor.
"Convenient, isn't it? Someone puts Potter's name in, knowing the magic would trap him. That's not carelessness — that's intent."
Madame Maxime gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
"Zis is absurd. You think someone planted ze name? For what reason?"
"Maybe to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple," Moody said darkly.
"Exactly!" Karkaroff barked. "Two Hogwarts champions — the host school makes sure the glory stays home."
"If anyone's earned a second bite, it's Dreyse," Moody said, his magical eye swiveling to fix on Alden. "Though I'd wager that boy doesn't need anyone's help breaking rules."
The firelight glinted off Alden's silver-white hair as he looked up, expression calm, unbothered.
"I didn't break a rule, Professor," he said quietly. "I broke a spell."
Moody's grin widened.
"Hah. That's what Grindelwald used to say, too."
The room went utterly still.
Snape's voice was a whip crack.
"Watch your tongue, Moody."
Moody turned toward him, unimpressed.
"Just an observation, Severus. Your little protégé here has a knack for it — rewriting the limits of things."
"He has a mind for it," Snape said icily. "And the discipline not to use it recklessly. I can't say the same for your paranoia."
Karkaroff gave a cold, humorless laugh.
"Well, well. The great Severus Snape is defending a boy who tears through Dumbledore's enchantments. How poetic."
"He defended your life once, too, Karkaroff," Snape murmured, voice like a blade. "And look how you repay debts."
Fleur, impatient and elegant, stamped her heel against the floor.
"Zis is all ridiculous! Why are we arguing when 'e—" she pointed at Harry "—'as ze chance to compete? Any of us would 'ave died for zis honor!"
"Perhaps someone intends for him to," Moody growled.
The words hit like a thunderclap. Even the fire seemed to recoil, dimming for a breath.
Bagman's laugh cracked in his throat.
"Now, now, Alastor—let's not—"
"Not what?" Moody interrupted, leaning forward. "Pretend this was luck? That's what he wants you to believe?"
Harry's voice broke through at last, raw and pleading.
"I didn't put my name in! I swear I didn't!"
His words bounced uselessly off the stone walls. Madame Maxime was already shaking her head.
"Of course 'e says zat."
McGonagall's patience snapped.
"Enough! You've heard Dumbledore — Potter says he didn't, and that's the end of it!"
But the chaos only swelled — voices overlapping, Bagman's futile attempts to restore calm lost in the storm of accusation.
Alden stood apart, near the far wall, the flicker of blue fire catching in his eyes. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The noise rolled over him like wind over glass.
Inside, though, his thoughts were silent and clear: This isn't about who entered. It's about what the Goblet has remembered.
Dumbledore finally raised his hand. The sound died instantly.
"Enough."
Even Moody fell quiet. The Headmaster's voice was low, even, but carried through the stone like thunder through fog.
"Whatever this is — confusion, sabotage, design — it changes nothing. The Goblet has chosen. The binding stands."
Karkaroff opened his mouth, but Dumbledore's gaze cut across the room like a blade of blue fire.
"Unless," Dumbledore continued, "you can undo ancient magic with argument, I suggest we prepare our champions."
For the first time that night, Alden saw something in Dumbledore's eyes — not anger, not pride, but the faint, sharp gleam of recognition.
The last time that look had appeared, it had been in an old photograph, and the man beside Dumbledore had worn it too.
The chaos had dulled into a strange, humming quiet — that sort of silence left behind after lightning strikes. The champions stood beneath the chandelier's blue fire, their faces drawn in uneven light. Smoke coiled from the hearth, curling toward the rafters like the tail of a ghost.
Dumbledore waited, his gaze steady, until the last murmurs of complaint died away. Madame Maxime stood tall and rigid, eyes burning with offense; Karkaroff's thin smile trembled between insult and restraint; Snape's expression was darker than the shadows behind him. Only Bagman seemed almost… thrilled.
"Well," Bagman said, rubbing his hands together with childlike eagerness, "shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty — care to do the honors?"
Mr. Crouch stirred from where he lingered near the edge of the firelight. The glow hit his face at an angle — pale, sunken, parchment-dry. For the first time that night, his voice faltered.
"Yes… yes, of course. Instructions."He stepped forward stiffly, gaze passing over each of them — Fleur, Krum, Harry, Alden — though his eyes lingered a half-second longer on the last, a faint crease forming at his brow, as if he recognized something he couldn't name.
"The first task," Crouch began, "is designed to test your daring. For that reason, we will not reveal its nature. Courage in the face of the unknown is an essential quality for any witch or wizard… very essential."
The way he said it — unknown — made it sound heavier than usual, like the word itself was a test.
Alden watched him quietly, unreadable, hands still clasped behind his back. His eyes followed the pattern of the shadows flickering against the stone, more interested in Crouch's pauses than his words.
"The first task will take place on November twenty-fourth," Crouch continued. "In front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept assistance of any kind from their teachers. You will face it armed only with your wands."
He looked tired now, as though each sentence required deliberate effort.
"The second task will be explained once the first is complete. Due to the nature of the Tournament, all champions are excused from end-of-year examinations."
He turned stiffly toward Dumbledore.
"I think… that's all. Isn't it, Albus?"
Dumbledore inclined his head.
"Yes, thank you, Barty."He studied Crouch closely, eyes faintly narrowed behind his half-moon spectacles. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to stay at Hogwarts tonight? You look—"
"No," Crouch interrupted, voice sharp again. "No, I must return to the Ministry. It's… a difficult time."A dry cough. "I've left Weatherby in charge. Keen boy. Overenthusiastic."
Bagman laughed, but it was nervous, uncertain.
"Oh, come now, Barty! Have a drink before you go. It's all happening here now, eh? Can't leave before the fun starts."
Crouch gave him a glance so cold it silenced even Bagman's smile.
"I think not, Ludo."
Dumbledore sighed softly, the smallest sound of weariness.
"Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime — perhaps a nightcap before we all retire?"
But Madame Maxime was already gathering her shawl around her shoulders, one arm circling Fleur protectively.
"Come, ma chérie," she said, voice clipped. "We are done here."Their conversation slipped into quick French as they swept from the room, the soft click of heels fading down the corridor.
Karkaroff gave a curt nod to Dumbledore — then a lingering, distrustful glance at Alden — before beckoning to Krum. They left without a word.
That left the Hogwarts faculty, the flicker of the fire, and the faint sound of the Great Hall settling beyond the door.
A long moment passed.
Harry still looked pale, disoriented — shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of a world that suddenly didn't fit him. Dumbledore placed a hand on his arm, speaking quietly, but the words were too low to catch.
Alden remained still near the wall, apart from the others. He looked as though he'd stepped out of the firelight on purpose — letting it gild the edges of his robes but not his face.
Snape broke the silence first.
"Headmaster," he said, his tone low, controlled, but colder than the air itself, "if I may, I suggest we allow the champions to rest. They will need clear minds, and I believe Mr. Dreyse has drawn enough attention for one evening."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured, eyes still on Harry. Then he turned. "Alden, you performed an extraordinary act tonight. Dangerous — perhaps even reckless — but extraordinary nonetheless."
Alden inclined his head slightly.
"Intent defines danger, sir. Not the act."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered — half concern, half the faintest recognition of old words spoken long ago by another boy who had believed something similar.
"Be careful where that belief leads you," he said quietly. "There are others who once thought the same."
Alden's reply came after a pause — polite, composed, but threaded with meaning.
"Perhaps they were only punished for being right too soon."
That hung in the air like a spark refusing to die.
Dumbledore exhaled, slow, deliberate. "Go with Professor Snape. I think you've both earned a conversation."
Snape nodded once, cloak whispering behind him as he stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. Alden turned toward Harry for the first time since the chaos had begun — not unkindly, but with that same quiet measure that made his gaze feel heavier than words.
"The Goblet doesn't choose by mistake," he said softly. "Maybe you'll learn why."
And then he left with Snape, the sound of their footsteps fading down the corridor — a rhythm sharp and even, like twin heartbeats receding into the castle's dark.