The dungeons fell away behind them, the air growing warmer and brighter with each step. Colin walked a pace ahead, excitement practically humming off him — his small frame bouncing on the worn stone stairs as if the news itself gave him wings.
"It's amazing, isn't it, Harry?" he said, turning half around so he could grin at both champions. "Isn't it, though? You being champion?"
Harry trudged in silence, his bag slung low against his shoulder. The echo of Potter Stinks still felt like it was burned into his ears.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Really amazing."
Colin didn't notice the tone. He rarely did.
"I think they want photos for The Daily Prophet! Can you imagine? You and Alden are both in the same paper! Two Hogwarts champions—"
"Great," Harry said flatly. "Exactly what I need. More publicity."
Behind them, Alden said nothing.
He walked like still water — silver hair catching the occasional streak of light from a torch, his expression unreadable, detached. His left hand was in his pocket, his right hand carrying his satchel loosely at his side. Even in silence, he carried presence.
Colin looked back at him once, almost out of reflex.
"Um—Mr. Dreyse?" he said tentatively, his voice pitching upward. "Congratulations! I mean—you know—on being chosen and all that!"
Alden's gaze flicked up for half a heartbeat.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the word shaped like an afterthought.
Colin, unsure whether that was an invitation to continue, looked helplessly at Harry. Harry didn't respond either. The three walked on, silence threading between them — Colin's quick steps, Harry's heavy ones, and Alden's near-soundless stride, all out of rhythm with one another.
When they reached the marble staircase, the light from the Entrance Hall poured down — gold and white and indifferent. A few portraits leaned forward to whisper as the champions passed. Students in the corridor paused to stare, but it wasn't Harry they were looking at.
It was Alden.
A dozen small murmurs followed in their wake — whispers of the boy who'd shattered Dumbledore's age line, the Slytherin who had rewritten a rule of magic. Some said he'd hexed the goblet itself; others swore he'd used a Grindelwald spell, one the Ministry had banned decades ago. Alden ignored all of it, eyes forward, the faintest shadow of thought crossing his face.
To Harry, the stillness was almost infuriating. He felt raw, visible, as though every eye on him carried a different accusation. Alden, walking beside him, looked untouchable.
At last, they reached the oak door leading into the appointed room. Colin stopped, adjusting his camera strap and smiling uncertainly.
"Good luck!" he chirped. "Both of you, I guess!"
Harry forced a thin smile and knocked.
Alden gave no farewell — only a nod, calm and brief, before stepping through the door as it opened.
Inside, the air was thicker, perfumed faintly with burnt parchment and ink. The classroom had been rearranged: desks pushed to the walls, velvet-draped tables gleaming under lamplight. The judges' chairs lined the front like a miniature court — five of them, empty save for Ludo Bagman, whose grin stretched as wide as ever.
Viktor Krum stood off in a corner, shadowed, arms folded across his chest. Fleur Delacour was laughing — the light caught her hair in a shimmer that looked nearly unreal. Her poise filled the room the way perfume might; even the camera wizard seemed momentarily hypnotized.
Alden took all this in with one quiet glance and then simply folded his hands behind his back, stepping to one side, posture straight, expression mild. The contrast was stark — Harry tense and frowning beside him, Alden still and composed, as he'd stepped out of a portrait instead of a corridor full of chaos.
Bagman leapt to his feet, bright and round and far too eager.
"Ah! Our Hogwarts champions!" he boomed. "Excellent, excellent — come in, come in! We're just about to begin. Miss Skeeter here is from The Daily Prophet — she's going to capture the moment for the public, you know!"
Rita Skeeter — hair as artificial as her smile — turned, her quill twitching eagerly at the sight of the two boys.
"Two champions from one school," she said, eyes gleaming behind jeweled spectacles. "Now that's something for the headlines. A duel of prodigies — the chosen and the challenger."
Harry grimaced. Alden inclined his head politely.
"We're not dueling," he said. His tone wasn't sharp — just final, absolute in a way that made Rita blink.
"Ah, but that's not the story, dear boy," she said, smile tightening. "The story is—contrast."
"Then you'll have plenty to write," Alden murmured, "since we're nothing alike."
She paused, quill hovering, uncertain if she was being mocked. Harry stared at him, trying to decide if that had been arrogance or honesty.
Bagman clapped his hands together.
"Right, right — let's not waste time! Champions, line up! Photographer's ready—yes, perfect! Miss Delacour, perhaps a little to the left? Excellent, Krum, arms down, no need to glower so much — yes, splendid! Harry, Alden, center!"
Alden stepped forward with quiet precision, taking his place beside Harry. The camera flared once — a blinding burst of white — and in that second Harry could feel it again: the difference.
Harry felt seen. Alden felt observed.
When the flash faded, Alden blinked once, eyes narrowing slightly as though the light itself annoyed him. Harry rubbed his eyes.
"You alright?" Harry muttered under his breath.
"It's only light," Alden replied. "It doesn't last."
Harry didn't know if that was reassurance or philosophy. He only knew it sounded exactly like something Alden Dreyse would say — and that, for some reason, made him feel even more alone.
The door closed behind Harry and Rita Skeeter with a soft click, sealing the room in calm. Fleur Delacour took the seat nearest the judges' table, graceful as a tide. Viktor Krum followed next, his movements heavy, shoulders curved inward like he was always conserving strength. Alden chose the seat beside him — not by rank, but by pattern.
Three champions, three kinds of silence. Fleur's was ornamental. Krum's was guarded.His own— reflective.
The sound of the quill in the corner filled the room, a faint, insistent scratching — recording, distorting, eternalizing.
Alden's eyes drifted to the table of judges. Dumbledore's posture was relaxed but watchful, like a lion feigning sleep. Karkaroff radiated vanity under the thin veneer of politeness. Maxime's gaze moved between Fleur and Dumbledore with a faint impatience. And Bagman… Bagman simply looked pleased to be near a stage again.
But it was the man by the window — pale-eyed, precise — who drew Alden's quiet attention. He recognized him at once .Mr. Ollivander.
The architect of focus itself, Alden thought. A man who shapes obedience into elegance.
When Harry returned, color high on his face and Rita's perfume trailing like smoke, Alden didn't move. He simply followed the shift of air as Dumbledore gestured forward.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said. "He will be inspecting the champions' wands."
Ollivander stepped into the lamplight — slender, ancient, but more alive than most men half his age. His fingers moved as if they'd never known trembling. His voice carried the kind of curiosity that could cut glass.
"Mademoiselle Delacour, if you would."
Fleur rose, her smile a weapon sheathed in courtesy. She handed her wand across — a slender length of rosewood, veined with pink warmth. Ollivander turned it once, and Alden felt the magic hum faintly in the air.
Nine and a half inches, he estimated, eyes tracing the flicker of light along its grain. Inflexible. The wood holds tension — easily bent toward emotion. The veela hair makes it flare on whim. Charmcraft, not warcraft.
Pink-gold sparks flitted through the air as Ollivander whispered Orchideous, and a bouquet spilled from the tip. Fleur smiled, pleased at the performance. Alden only tilted his head. Temperamental, but honest. Magic that obeys beauty and belief.
"Mr. Krum."
The Durmstrang champion stood. His wand was the opposite in every way — thick, pale hornbeam with a dull shine, the grain rougher, the lines heavier. Alden knew the feel of that kind of wand. It was workman's magic — meant to channel power, not interpret it.
Ollivander's eyes lit faintly.
"Gregorovitch make, yes? Hornbeam and dragon heartstring?"
Krum grunted an affirmative.
Ollivander turned it carefully, tested its balance, then flicked.
A concussive crack split the air — a spray of birds erupted from the tip, scattering into the rafters.
Alden blinked against the feathers drifting down. Heartstring wands thrive on dominance. They don't listen — they challenge.
He could almost feel the energy of it still humming in the floorboards — coarse, proud, unrefined. Krum doesn't control his wand, Alden thought. He wrestles with it. And it lets him win, most days.
"Mr. Potter."
A small sound escaped Ollivander — half surprise, half nostalgia. Alden watched as Harry passed his wand forward. Holly wood. Eleven inches. Polished but unassuming. When Ollivander spoke again, the tone changed — reverent, nearly emotional.
"How well I remember."
Alden's eyes narrowed faintly. Phoenix feather, he thought, recognizing the subtle warmth in the air, a purity that made the room almost uncomfortable. Fireis bound to renewal. Magic meant for rebirth, not destruction.
The wand sang softly when tested — a melody in smoke and light.
But twin feathers never rest quietly, Alden mused. They always remember one another.
He knew enough wandlore to feel the echo — the ghost of Voldemort's wand resonating distantly through it. The symmetry of fates fascinated him, not frightened him.
"Still in perfect condition," Ollivander concluded, voice soft.
Harry exhaled. The tension in the room eased.
Alden's hands rested quietly in his lap. He hadn't moved through any of it — not even when the phoenix magic brushed against him. His eyes lingered on the wands that had gone before. Three different philosophies carved into wood: beauty, control, and rebirth.
His would be something else entirely. Not bound by vanity. Not forged by dominance. Not singing for salvation.
His wand listened — and chose when to answer.
Ollivander turned, pale eyes meeting his.
"And now," he said quietly, "Mr. Dreyse."
The air seemed to thin.
Alden rose. His chair made no sound.
He moved with the stillness of someone accustomed to being watched — not performative, not hesitant. Simply deliberate.
Mr. Ollivander waited in the open space, pale eyes luminous beneath the candlelight. He gestured softly.
"If you would, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden drew his wand from his sleeve.
The moment the ebony wood caught the light, the air changed. Shadows seemed to bend around the metal-dark grain, a faint sheen of green-silver marbling catching like breath under moonlight. It wasn't flamboyant — it was quiet, regal, dangerous.
He extended it hilt-first, a swordsman's courtesy.
Ollivander took it between his long fingers, and for the first time that day, the wandmaker hesitated.
"Oh," he said softly. "This is… not one of mine."
A faint shiver moved through the room. Even Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill paused mid-scratch, as though waiting.
Ollivander turned the wand carefully, inspecting the carvings that ran along its spine — not decorative, but functional, almost runic. His thumb traced them.
"Ebony," he murmured. "Twelve and three-quarter inches… rigid, but balanced… a continental make, I think — German, perhaps… the work of one who studied intent rather than feared it."
Dumbledore's gaze lifted at that.
Ollivander raised the wand to his ear — a ritual as old as wandlore itself. He closed his eyes, listening.
The silence was absolute. Even the camera wizard lowered his lens.
When Ollivander spoke again, his tone was reverent.
"The first voice within is familiar enough… Thestral hair."
He turned the wand in his hand; it hummed faintly, a low pulse like a heartbeat muffled in the dark.
"Difficult material. It refuses unworthy handlers. To earn its loyalty, one must understand death — not fear it, not crave it… comprehend it."
Fleur's smile faltered. Krum's brow creased.
Ollivander continued, almost to himself.
"But there's something else beneath it. A binding thread — a second current. The thestral's silence entwined with…"
His voice faded as he peered closer, the light gleaming off something embedded within the wood's grain. His fingers froze.
"Ah."
He looked up slowly.
"A preserved basilisk scale."
The words dropped into the room like a spell.
Everything stopped. The quill. The camera. The breath of every person present.
Harry felt his stomach twist. The sound of scales scraping stone, the reek of blood and venom — it all flashed in his mind. The Chamber. The serpent. He swallowed hard, staring at the black wand as though it might rear and strike.
Fleur's lips parted — not in fear, but in awe.
"Zat is… dangerous magic," she whispered.
Krum muttered something in Bulgarian, his expression wary, eyes fixed on Alden.
Karkaroff's polite mask cracked; he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Madame Maxime leaned back, her massive form stiff with disbelief.
Only Dumbledore did not move — though the light in his eyes deepened into something like recognition, and unease. Gellert, he thought. You mad, brilliant fool. You actually found someone who finished it.
He remembered fragments — a conversation in Nurmengard, long ago, when Gellert Grindelwald had sketched wand theories on a prison wall, whispering about dual cores: "A meeting of paradox. Death's hair with death's slayer's skin. The wand that knows both sides."
Dumbledore had assumed it was an idea — not a creation.
Now he wasn't sure.
Ollivander held the wand in both hands, staring at it with mingled admiration and apprehension.
"I have never seen its like," he said quietly. "The two cores should repel each other — yet here, they sing. Dark and light, death and defiance, fused by extraordinary will."
He glanced at Alden.
"And the wand listens to you?"
"When I let it," Alden said simply.
The understatement landed heavier than arrogance ever could.
Ollivander nodded slowly, then turned toward the judges' table.
"This wand was not built for obedience. It was built for understanding — or perhaps for testing it. It does not favor light or darkness; it favors clarity."
Rita's quill exploded into motion, scribbling furiously — phrases like "child prodigy,""dual-core mystery,""forbidden craftsmanship reborn."
The judges glanced at each other uneasily. Mr. Crouch had gone pale. Bagman's grin had faded into something nervous.
"Well," Ollivander said finally, handing the wand back with careful grace, "may it never turn on you, Mr. Dreyse."
Alden accepted it silently. The wood was warm against his palm, almost alive.
He turned and walked back to his seat. Each step echoed, measured, final.
When he sat, the faint hum of the wand faded — but the room did not recover. It stayed quiet, as though the walls themselves were thinking.
The velvet table had been cleared, and the air was thick with heat from the candles. Rita Skeeter's perfume clung like static — too sweet, too sharp, the scent of ink and ambition. The photographer adjusted his smoking camera again, muttering about lighting and angles. The heavy lens glinted with the firelight, throwing bright little glares across the room.
"Photos, Dumbledore! Photos!" Bagman boomed, his voice cutting through the lull. "All the champions and judges together — perfect for the Prophet front page!"
Rita's eyes gleamed.
"Yes, yes — absolutely. Let's get everyone close! Expression of unity, rivalry, promise — all that sort of thing."
The champions gathered in front of the long, velvet-draped table where the judges had been seated. Fleur drifted to the front like a silvery current; her hair shimmered with reflected light, her chin tilted to the lens with quiet mastery. Even the photographer blinked twice before finding his focus.
Krum stood off-center, looming but uneasy, his expression the habitual scowl of someone who hated being seen. His shadow fell long and heavy across the floor.
Harry stood stiffly at the edge, hands at his sides, the hollowness of the past few days hanging on him like a cloak. He didn't smile. He couldn't. Rita noticed, of course — she hurried forward, talon-nailed hand gripping his shoulder, forcing him a half-step closer to the middle.
"Our youngest Hogwarts champion," she purred to the photographer. "Front and center, if you please. The story writes itself."
Harry's jaw clenched. He said nothing.
Alden remained where he was — just slightly apart, posture straight, expression unreadable. He hadn't moved to claim the center, hadn't stepped back to vanish either. The light from the chandeliers caught his silver-white hair and turned it to a pale halo. His wand still hung loosely in his hand, the black wood absorbing the glow rather than reflecting it.
The camera wizard blinked behind the lens, uncertain.
"Er… where d'you want him, miss?"
"Beside Potter," Rita said at once. "Yes — that's it. Contrast! The boy of light and the boy of shadow."
Alden's gaze flicked to her, a faint trace of amusement ghosting across his features. He moved to stand beside Harry, who could feel the difference immediately — where Harry radiated tension and restless energy, Alden stood as if carved from something older, quieter.
The camera flashed — crack! — white light filling the room.
For a moment, none of them could see.
The afterimage burned into their retinas: Fleur glowing, Krum looming, Harry rigid, and Alden— still as glass, his wand a streak of dark silver across his hand.
"Perfect!" Rita said, already repositioning them.
"One more — just the champions, perhaps the judges behind? No, no, Madame Maxime, could you sit? You're quite magnificent but terribly tall — yes, that's better. Karkaroff, dear, a bit closer to the light, there's a shadow on your— oh, never mind. Smile!"
Another flash.Another burst of white.
Karkaroff twirled his goatee with mock dignity. Madame Maxime smiled thinly, though her eyes never left Alden. Bagman beamed for the camera like a boy who'd been promised sweets.
And Dumbledore— Dumbledore did not smile at all.
He stood at the end of the table, hands folded before him, eyes fixed not on the camera, not on the others—but on Alden's wand.
That ebony length with the faint green marbling seemed to hum faintly even now, as if it remembered being seen. And in the cold gleam of it, Dumbledore saw ghosts.
The candlelight wavered, and for one disorienting instant, the years fell away—and he was standing not in Hogwarts, but in Godric's Hollow.
Two boys in the summer light—One laughing, one listening.One dreaming of greatness, one dreaming of goodness.One with eyes like a storm.One with eyes full of trust.
He could still feel Gellert's hand brushing his, the thrill of shared discovery, the ache of unspoken love. He remembered that day by the fountain, when Gellert had whispered:
"What if a wand could think in dualities — two truths at once? Light and dark, intertwined. The bearer would be balance itself."
It had been a theory. Fantasy.Until now.
So you built it after all, Dumbledore thought bitterly. Or someone did, in your name.
He studied Alden — the precision of his stillness, the mind behind those grey-green eyes, the gravity far beyond his years. There was no malice in the boy. No vanity. But there was understanding. And that, Dumbledore knew, was more dangerous than either.
How did you find it? He wondered. How did you learn the spell Gellert once whispered over a fire that night? The one meant to break laws without breaking them?
Another flash went off —and the moment vanished.
The light faded, leaving afterimages burned into everyone's vision. The champions blinked, disoriented. Rita clapped her hands together.
"Lovely! Positively radiant! The Prophet will adore this."
The photographer packed up his camera, muttering something about glare from "the silver-haired one," and began ushering people toward the door.
The noise rose again — scraping chairs, half-congratulations, Fleur's laughter, Karkaroff's oily compliments.
Dumbledore did not move.
His eyes followed Alden as the boy turned, speaking quietly to Krum in what sounded like courtesy, not camaraderie. He moved with that same calm certainty — the quiet of someone who knew exactly what he was.
A flash of memory burned behind Dumbledore's eyes — Grindelwald, smiling through a cell's iron bars, his voice rasping:
"You'll see, Albus. Someone will understand it. Someone will finish what I began."
The room emptied. The last echo of the camera's shutter faded.
Dumbledore remained still, his expression unreadable.
Then, softly, under his breath — a name he hadn't spoken aloud in decades.
"Mathius."
The candles flickered once, as if they'd heard.