The air around the arena trembled. Every breath was smoke. Every heartbeat was thunder.
Hogwarts had never seen anything like this.
The stands built into the slope of the valley were overflowing — a heaving ocean of cloaks, scarves, and banners. Enchantments flickered across the sky like auroras: sigils of dragons, house crests, and looping flashes of gold where betting odds shimmered midair. The November wind carried the scent of char and pine, and the faint, molten reek of dragonfire.
At the center of it all, the arena waited — a bowl of scorched stone and sand, veined with cracks that smoked faintly. Beyond the iron gates, a massive silhouette prowled and snorted, every exhale a plume of heat. The ground itself seemed to breathe.
And from the Hogwarts stands, a chant began to rise — rhythmic, thunderous, unmistakable.
"Dreyse! Dreyse! Dreyse!"
Emerald-green sparks burst over the Slytherin section. Students had woven serpentine light charms that writhed above them like living banners. Every time the chant reached its peak, the illusion of a massive serpent coiled higher, its eyes gleaming silver-white to match their champion's.
Theo Nott was standing on the benches, cupping his hands around his mouth.
"Let's go, Alden! Give 'em something to remember!"
Draco leaned over the railing, grinning widely, hair whipping in the wind.
"Show them how a real wizard fights!"
Behind them, Pansy, Blaise, and half the house beat their fists against the stone in rhythm. The other Houses couldn't help but look — some in awe, others in unease.
The Gryffindor section, by contrast, was a storm of whispers.
"That's him — the one who broke Dumbledore's line.""You can see it, can't you? He's not like us.""No fourteen-year-old should look like that."
From the stands, Alden Dreyse did not look like a boy.
He stood at the far end of the entry tunnel, framed by smoke and shadow. His silver-white hair caught the torchlight like threads of steel; his eyes — those sharp grey-green ones — didn't search for the crowd or the judges. They were fixed ahead, toward the gate that led into the dragon's pit.
He didn't flinch at the roar that rolled from beyond it. If anything, the faintest curl of his mouth suggested… understanding.
Beside the judges' box, Professor McGonagall pressed her hands together tightly, knuckles pale. The spectacle of it all — the music, the chanting, the reckless cheering — seemed to unsettle her as much as the firelight crawling across the horizon.
"He's still a child," she whispered, though her voice was lost beneath the crowd's roar.
Flitwick, half his size, was leaning forward so far his hat nearly fell off.
"Brilliant or mad — I can't decide which," he muttered.
Professor Sprout dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, mumbling something about "dragons and boys being a poor mix."
And behind them, quiet as the breath before thunder, stood Snape. His face was unreadable, all edges and shadows. But his hands — folded across his chest — were pale at the knuckles, the slightest tremor betraying restraint.
His eyes didn't blink. He was studying Alden the way one might study a live spell — knowing it was dangerous, but proud all the same.
Dumbledore, at the center, merely observed — expression unreadable beneath half-moon spectacles. There was something in his eyes, though — the same melancholy that had followed him ever since Ollivander had examined Alden's wand.
Mathius… what did you leave behind?
The announcer's voice boomed magically across the stands, shaking the air.
"And now — the fourth and final champion of the Triwizard Tournament! Representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — Alden Dreyse!"
The crowd erupted. Sparks of green and silver shot skyward, exploding into blossoms of light. The ground itself seemed to quake from the noise. Even students from other houses joined in, unable to resist the magnetic spectacle of the moment.
Alden didn't acknowledge them.
He stepped forward from the shadow of the tunnel — the roar of dragons echoing somewhere above, banners whipping in the heat haze. Each step was measured, boots pressing faint indentations into the sand. His wand remained hidden within his sleeve, his left hand brushing lightly against it, an unconscious habit born of precision, not fear.
The cameras flashed — the Prophet's photographers craning for a better shot. The lens caught him mid-stride: cloak rippling, hair shining like burnished silver, his face calm enough to be mistaken for serenity.
When he reached the center of the arena, he paused.
The Horntail's roar cracked open the sky.
Fire burst behind the gates — a plume so bright it turned daylight gold. Metal groaned; the chain restraints trembled, and with one final earth-shaking sound, the dragon stepped into view.
It was larger than the others — broader, spined, wings folded like knives against its body. Smoke rolled from its nostrils, curling through rows of jagged teeth. Its eyes glowed like twin furnaces.
The crowd hushed. Even the Slytherin chants faltered.
Alden simply looked up — head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity. The expression wasn't fear. It wasn't even excitement. It was a study.
"Merlin help him," Sprout whispered.
"He doesn't need Merlin," Snape said flatly, though his arms stayed locked, knuckles taut. "He is what Merlin tried to understand."
Another boom. The dragon's tail lashed, gouging deep furrows in the glassed sand.
Alden lifted his chin, exhaled once — the air cooling visibly around him — and began to move.
The ground shook before the roar hit.
It wasn't sound — not really. It was pressure, raw and ancient, rolling through the air like a physical force. Dust leapt from the arena walls. Flags whipped violently on their poles. The front rows of the stands flinched as heat washed over them — a wave so intense it bent the light, turning faces into rippling mirages.
The male Hungarian Horntail stepped fully into the arena.
It was a cathedral of violence given form: scales black as cooled magma, veins of molten red pulsing beneath. Its wings opened, stretching wider than any dragon had a right to — webbing glowing as iron left too long in the forge. Every exhale came with sparks. Every breath reeked of charred stone.
The crowd went utterly silent.
Even Bagman faltered in his commentary, his cheery tone dying in his throat as the Horntail's tail slammed down — a casual sweep that tore up a trench six feet deep and sent a shockwave through the valley.
Flitwick squeaked aloud, hands gripping the railing.
"Good heavens — that's not just a nesting male, that's a full-grown breeder!"
Sprout looked pale.
"Merlin's bones, even with a dozen wizards, it would take hours to subdue—"
McGonagall's jaw was rigid, eyes fixed on Alden's small figure below.
"He shouldn't be out there," she said tightly. "He's fourteen, Albus—fourteen."
But Dumbledore said nothing. His gaze followed Alden, unreadable, his expression caught somewhere between faith and fear.
Only Snape remained still — outwardly. His arms crossed, robes unmoving, but the muscles in his jaw shifted once. Just once.
Below, the dragon reared — wings half-unfurled, massive head craning downward to fix on the lone boy who hadn't yet drawn his wand. Its pupils contracted, burning coals narrowing to pinpoints.
The ground groaned.
Alden didn't move.
He watched it quietly. His silver hair caught the reflection of the firelight, shimmering faintly — a thin, human line before an ancient god of flame.
The Horntail hissed — a sound like steam escaping a forge. And then it attacked.
The blast of fire hit like a hurricane. It roared across the arena, white-hot, so bright it washed the world out to nothing but gold. Sand lifted in clouds, stone cracked, and half the front row of the stands flinched back, shielding their faces from the heat that bled through the protective wards.
And there — at the center of it — Alden moved.
His wand was already out, drawn as fast as breath."Umbra Velo."
The words left him like a whisper, but the magic obeyed like thunder. A dome of black light unfurled from his stance — smoke made solid — expanding in a perfect sphere around him. The dragon's flame slammed into it with a scream of pressure. The barrier bent inward, warping like molten glass.
Gasps tore from the stands. The Horntail's inferno should have shattered it — but instead, the fire dimmed. It twisted, curling in on itself, drawn into the barrier like ink sinking into water.
The roar faded. The flame died.
And then, from within the smoke, came frost.
"Frigus Corpus Prima."
The black dome glowed blue at its edges. A pulse rolled outward — silent, absolute — and the absorbed heat turned to freezing mist. Ice crawled along the walls of the arena, thin and sharp, crackling as it spread.
The stands gasped in unison. A thin layer of frost glimmered over the nearest rows, light refracting through it like crystal.
Students stared in disbelief.
"He—he froze the fire.""No, he—he drank it!"
In the Slytherin stands, Theo whooped and threw his arms in the air.
"That's how it's done!"
Draco, wild-eyed, pounded the railing.
"That's our champion!"
But the professors were silent. Even Snape's eyes had sharpened, the way one stares at a potion that could as easily heal as kill.
The dragon reeled, confused — steam rising off its scales. It roared again, furious, flinging its wings wide. The gust from its wings tore the remaining ice off the walls in a glittering storm.
Alden remained unmoving. Frost drifted from his shoulders like ash. The air around him shimmered with the afterglow of his barrier's collapse.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the beast as though evaluating a chessboard.
"Majestic," he murmured to himself. "But predictable."
The Horntail lunged.
Alden stepped aside — just once — his motion fluid, calm, impossibly deliberate. The dragon's talons gouged the ground where he had been standing, molten sand spraying into the air.
He flicked his wand, eyes narrowing. Shadows bent to his command, coiling like smoke around his feet.
The crowd had stopped cheering. They were watching in silence now — that strange silence of awe and disbelief, when human boundaries have already been surpassed.
From the judges' box, Flitwick whispered hoarsely,
"That boy's not casting spells anymore. He's commanding them."
Snape said nothing, but his fingers tightened around the railing — not in fear, but in restrained pride.
The dragon snarled, breath glowing in its throat again. The heat shimmered; the sound of crackling stone filled the air.
Alden raised his wand a fraction, the corner of his mouth curving faintly.
"Phase two," he breathed — just enough for himself.
The next darkness would swallow the sun.
The Horntail shrieked, wings beating like thunder, sand and ice whipping through the air in spirals. Its scales burned red in the reflection of its own flame, molten lines coursing like veins across its hide.
The crowd could feel the vibration in their ribs. Even the protective wards flickered under the pressure.
Alden stood in the center of it all — untouched, utterly calm. His eyes tracked the beast not with fear, but comprehension. Every breath of the dragon was a pattern, every wingbeat a rhythm. It wasn't rage to him — it was structure.
And the structure could be rewritten.
He raised his wand. His voice was low, measured."Tenebris Lux."
The light around him died.
It wasn't snuffed out — it was inverted. The daylight collapsed inward, shadows lengthening, spreading outward from him in silent waves. Within seconds, the entire arena darkened, as though a solar eclipse had swallowed the sun.
Gasps broke from the stands. Students shielded their eyes. Professors squinted into the sudden twilight. The only illumination left came from two points of silver-green light — his eyes.
"It's like the sun fell," someone whispered."No," said another, voice trembling. "It's him. He's taking it."
The dragon roared, a sound that split the air. Flame erupted again — a defiant pillar of gold —, but it couldn't pierce the darkness. The fire bent around Alden's sphere, twisting away as though afraid to touch him.
Within that growing void, movement began.
Alden's cloak stirred, though there was no wind. Sand lifted from the ground, spinning in wide, controlled arcs — glimmering faintly as it hardened midair. Each particle became a sliver of blackened glass, drawn to the gravity of his magic.
"Ala Ferrea."
The words echoed as a bell struck underwater.
Metallic wind howled — a sound between whisper and scream. The shards spiraled around him, orbiting like a constellation, forming patterns of steel and shadow.
Even the dragon hesitated.
Up in the stands, Sprout clutched Flitwick's arm.
"That's not elemental magic," she breathed. "It's— it's alchemical—"
"No," Flitwick whispered, eyes wide behind his spectacles. "It's design. He's building something."
The Horntail lunged, fury outweighing its instinct. It struck downward, claws extended — a mountain of muscle and rage.
Alden's eyes flashed once.
He turned his wrist.
"Claustrum Fractura."
The earth beneath them split open with a sound like cracking glass. The chains that once tethered the dragon burst upward again — shattering their stakes — then twisted midair, snaking downward in perfect arcs. They didn't reattach.
They planted themselves into the ground in a wide circle, connecting point to point, forming a glowing sigil that pulsed with dark silver light.
The crowd gasped as the circle spread outward, locking the dragon and Alden inside together. Sparks crawled over the sigil lines, embedding runes older than the castle walls.
The Horntail screeched and lashed its tail — the blow hit the barrier of the circle and ricocheted, sending a plume of fire backward into its own chest. The creature staggered, disoriented.
Alden didn't move. His shadow lengthened, stretching along the sigil lines until it touched each one, feeding them light.
To the audience, it looked like a ritual. To the professors — a controlled detonation of theory.
McGonagall's face had gone pale.
"Albus," she whispered. "He's creating a ritual ward inside a live containment field. That kind of magic— it's centuries beyond his level—"
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. His voice was quiet, almost mournful.
"I told you. He's not imitating Grindelwald. He's refining him."
The dragon roared again, flame surging, defiance incarnate — but it found no target.
Alden was gone.
Or rather, he had become a shadow. The black mist around him swelled, forming three faint silhouettes that moved in sync — a reflection spell layered through the Tenebris Lux. Every motion mirrored, every feint multiplied.
The Horntail spun, fire bursting in all directions, snapping at illusions that evaporated before contact.
The crowd could see nothing but fragments of light in the dark.
"Where is he?" someone shouted."Everywhere," came a trembling voice in reply.
Then, silence.
Alden stepped from the darkness behind the beast — his outline sharp against the dull shimmer of the circle. Frost still clung to his boots, trailing light with every step. The wind had stopped.
He looked up at the creature — a god brought low — and exhaled once, steady.
"It's not hate," he murmured. "It's instinct. The same thing that drives us to create."
He raised his wand one last time.
The crowd leaned forward as though under a spell themselves. Even the professors forgot to breathe.
"They already call me what they fear," Alden said softly, his words barely reaching the front rows."Let them be right, just once."
"Sectis Nox Magna."
A soundless fracture of light tore through the world.
It wasn't bright — it was pure. A blade of radiance so thin it seemed impossible, cutting the air in a single perfect motion.
The dragon froze mid-roar.
Its fire dimmed. Its heartbeat thundered once — twice — and stopped.
The fracture widened like a crack in a mirror.
The Horntail's head slipped from its body, sliding down with a heavy, reverberating thud. Its body stood upright for a heartbeat longer — trembling — before collapsing into the sand with a sound like a collapsing cathedral.
No fire. No explosion. Just silence.
The shockwave rippled outward, crystallizing the sand into glass.
Snow — red-tinted from the blood-mist — began to fall.
The crowd didn't cheer. Not at first.
Everyone was frozen in their seats — even Bagman, words caught in his throat.
It was McGonagall who finally exhaled, hand over her mouth. Flitwick muttered something in disbelief. Sprout crossed herself with trembling fingers.
In the front row, Theo rose to his feet, eyes shining.
"He—he did it!"
Draco erupted beside him, voice breaking with adrenaline.
"That's him! That's our champion!"
And then it spread — applause and shouts colliding into chaos. The Slytherin section became a storm of green light and silver sparks, chanting his name like an anthem.
"DREYSE! DREYSE! DREYSE!"
The other houses joined — not in praise, but awe. Fear. Curiosity.
"He's not a boy," someone whispered."He's what Grindelwald wanted to be.""He ended it… not killed it."
Snape's expression shifted, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Efficiency," he murmured under his breath. "Is its own morality."
Alden stood still amidst the aftermath. The sand around him had turned to glass, reflecting his image a hundred times over — each one fractured, distorted, incomplete.
He lowered his wand. The frost drifted from his cloak in thin ribbons of mist.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't bow. He just exhaled, slowly, like a man returning from a dream.
This is what the top feels like, he thought. Too quiet.
He turned, walking from the circle. Behind him, the arena remained half-burnt and half-frozen — a perfect mirror of what he was becoming.