Alden finally lowered his wand.
The sound of magic — that hum that had filled every atom of air — faded, leaving only the faint hiss of cooling glass. The frost clinging to his sleeves broke loose, tiny white shards falling and vanishing as they touched the scorched earth.
He stood alone in the center of the arena, the wreckage of divinity sprawled before him. The male Horntail lay motionless — its black scales cracked, its great wings half-buried in the sand-turned-glass. Smoke curled from the stump of its neck, rising into a sky that had gone strangely still.
Alden's eyes lifted to the stands.
Tens of thousands stared back. Faces blurred together — awe, fear, disbelief — all the same when filtered through distance. The cheers that had once filled the world were gone, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt constructed, like a spell.
Beneath his boots, the ground mirrored him — fractured glass that shimmered with reflections of crimson frost and black smoke. His own image stared back: pale, composed, wand still faintly steaming. For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure which one of them was real.
This is what the top feels like, he thought. Too quiet.
He turned from the judges' stand. The hem of his cloak hissed softly against the vitrified ground, tracing a thin, dark line behind him.
He didn't look up when the murmurs began — didn't flinch when the silence broke. It started with whispers in the crowd: disbelief, reverence, accusation — a thousand opinions born in the same breath.
"He didn't even flinch—""That was—did he kill it or… stop it?""Dark magic. Has to be.""No—look, Dumbledore's not stopping him—"
The crowd's noise swelled, but Alden didn't seem to hear it.
His path carried him closer to the dragon's fallen form. Steam rose from the wound in lazy coils. The creature's blood, dark and metallic, pooled around its claws and began to harden into obsidian streaks.
The golden egg gleamed beside it — half-coated in blood, its metallic sheen warped by the red reflection.
Alden crouched beside it, studying the surface for a moment before reaching out. The egg was still hot. His fingers brushed its side; steam rose where his skin met the metal, but he didn't pull away.
He lifted it in both hands, slowly, with a reverence that wasn't for the prize — but for what it had cost. The blood dripped from its base, running down his wrist in thin crimson trails that vanished against the black fabric of his sleeve.
For a long moment, he just stood there — between the slain dragon and the burning horizon, framed by smoke and glass.
In the stands, no one spoke.
Then, somewhere in the Slytherin section, Theo Nott rose to his feet, clapping once. Then again. Draco followed.
And then the rest of Slytherin — the noise erupting like a storm breaking through a dam. Green flares ignited above them, spiraling into serpentine shapes.
"DREYSE! DREYSE! DREYSE!"
The name spread, echoing through the other stands. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws — all shouting, though not all with joy. Some cheered. Some cursed. Some just stared, unable to decide which emotion fit best.
"He's terrifying.""He's magnificent.""He's—""—everything they say he is."
Up in the judges' box, McGonagall's hands were still clasped tight enough that her knuckles had gone white.
"No fourteen-year-old should move like that," she whispered.
Flitwick looked pale but dazed.
"It wasn't the spell," he said, almost to himself. "It was the control. He could've leveled half the arena, and instead he drew a line through the world."
Snape said nothing. But the faintest glint in his dark eyes betrayed what his lips refused to show — pride. The dangerous kind.
Dumbledore, standing silent behind the rail, watched as Alden stepped past the dragon's headless body and began to walk toward the exit tunnel. The golden egg, streaked with blood, gleamed faintly under his arm.
The applause built behind him, rolling like thunder. But he didn't turn. Didn't bow. Didn't even look back.
He moved through it like a ghost — past the light, past the noise, into shadow.
By the time he disappeared into the tunnel, the crowd was on its feet — half roaring his name, half praying he'd never look their way.
And from the judges' platform, Dumbledore whispered to no one at all:
"Mathius… what have you done?"
The champion's tent smelled of ash and burned leather. Canvas walls still trembled from the echo of the crowd outside — a noise that rose and fell like a living thing. Inside, though, the air was still. Too still.
Alden stepped through the entrance without a word.
Every conversation died.
Four dragon handlers — one of them Charlie Weasley, face smeared with soot — froze mid-motion. They were tending to wounds, extinguishing a few embers on equipment, murmuring about nerve endings and control spells. When they saw Alden, they didn't speak. They just stared — not with admiration, but with something closer to hostility.
He could feel it pressing against his skin. The judgment. The unease.
Madam Pomfrey was muttering over a pale Harry Potter on the next cot, cleaning a shallow burn with violet tonic. The hiss and steam filled the silence. Across from him, Fleur Delacour sat rigid, hair still perfect but eyes wide; her hand trembled slightly where it clutched her wand. Krum leaned against the tent pole, pale and brooding, his right arm bandaged but his eyes sharp and restless.
No one congratulated him.
Not even Bagman, who was pacing near the flap with his usual forced enthusiasm — but whose grin faltered when Alden entered.
"Ah—Alden! Quite—er—quite something, that! Very, ah, decisive ending, my boy—"
Alden walked past him. Didn't stop. Didn't answer. The hem of his cloak whispered over the ground, smearing faint streaks of glass dust.
He placed the golden egg — still streaked with drying blood — on the small metal table beside his cot. The metal hissed where the blood touched it .Then he sat.
Silence.
Only the crackle of the brazier filled the tent.
Charlie Weasley broke it first. His voice was low but carried like a thrown stone.
"You didn't have to kill it."
He stood near the far cot, hands clenched around a dragon's broken harness. His freckles were obscured by grime, his eyes bright with restrained fury.
"You could've stunned it. Disarmed it. Hell, even put it to sleep. But you didn't, did you?"
Alden looked up at him. Calmly.
"Would you have preferred it burned through the wards?"
"It wasn't going to!" Charlie snapped. "It was defending its nest—"
"And I defended mine," Alden said softly.
That quiet tone made the tent colder than the air outside.
Madam Pomfrey shot Charlie a warning look — more for his sake than Alden's.
"That's enough," she said briskly. "It's over. The boy did what he had to."
"Had to?" Charlie muttered, glaring. "He—"But Dumbledore entered the tent then, cutting him off.
The headmaster's presence shifted the air. Even the healers fell quiet. The candlelight flickered strangely against his half-moon spectacles. He looked first at Harry, giving Madam Pomfrey a small nod, then at Alden — longer, searchingly.
Their eyes met for the first time since the spell.
Something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Fear. A kind of resigned familiarity.
"You handled yourself with… remarkable control," Dumbledore said quietly.
Alden inclined his head slightly.
"Control was the point."
Behind them, Fleur let out a shaky laugh that wasn't humorous.
"Control? You call zat control? You froze ze air! You—" She stopped herself, unable to find the word. "You looked like 'e."
Krum's eyes narrowed.
"Dark or not, he won. Fastest I've seen."
"Efficient," Alden said simply.
The word hung there, strange and sharp, like glass catching the light.
Dumbledore finally looked away. His expression was carefully neutral, but his voice was distant when he spoke.
"You will find, Mr. Dreyse, that efficiency can frighten even those who admire it."
He turned to leave, murmuring to Bagman about scoring and ceremony, his cloak trailing like a shadow in the torchlight.
When he was gone, Alden reached for the egg again. The surface had cooled now — dull gold, scarred with streaks of rust-red. He ran his thumb over the seam, tracing its shape.
Fleur kept her distance. Krum just watched. Harry, still sitting on the cot beside Pomfrey, risked a glance his way.
Their eyes met — for the first time not as rivals, but as something closer to equals.
"You told me to focus," Harry said quietly."I did," Alden replied."You make it look easy."
Alden's lips curved, not quite a smile.
"It isn't."
He stood, lifting the egg under one arm. The tent flap rustled open, letting in the sound of distant cheers, the smell of smoke and frost.
He looked back once — at the cot, the dragon handlers, the nervous hush that followed him wherever he went.
"Don't mistake silence for peace," he said — to no one in particular — and stepped outside.
The cheering hadn't stopped by the time Alden emerged from the tunnel. If anything, it had grown — a roaring, fractured wave of voices that rolled across the stands and into the frozen sky above the arena.
The air smelled of frost and blood and smoke.
Harry, standing near the rail with Ron and Hermione, could see Alden clearly now — his silver-white hair catching what was left of the afternoon light, the golden egg glinting under his arm. He didn't raise it triumphantly. He simply walked, cloak dragging against scorched sand, face unreadable.
Even Ron had gone silent for a moment.
"Blimey," he muttered. "He—he really did it."
Harry didn't answer. He wasn't sure what to think. Watching Alden fight had been like watching something designed rather than human. Controlled. Exact. Beautiful — and horrifying.
At the far end of the arena, five chairs had been raised on a gilded platform. The judges waited there, their faces tight with nerves that hadn't quite faded.
Bagman looked like he wanted to cheer again. Karkaroff's smile was carved and brittle. Madame Maxime's knuckles had gone white around her wand. Dumbledore's expression was calm — too calm. Mr. Crouch stood with his hands behind his back, unreadable as stone.
"It's marks out of ten from each one," someone whispered from the crowd.
Madame Maxime raised her wand first. A swirl of silver smoke shot upward — it twisted, solidified, and turned into a floating eight.
A murmur swept through the stands.
"Eight? He killed it!""She's scared of him."
Mr. Crouch went next. His wand flicked once — a nine gleamed in the air.
Bagman, beaming nervously, made his flourish. Ten. He clapped loudly, almost as if trying to drown out his own discomfort.
Then Dumbledore.
He raised his wand, hesitated — and after a long pause, released his ribbon of light. It shaped itself into a nine, soft and steady.
Finally, Karkaroff.He spun his wand once, sneered, and sent his score into the air.
Seven.
The crowd erupted — half in outrage, half in laughter. Slytherins shouted over it, furious.
"Seven?!""He didn't even get touched!""Karkaroff's jealous!"
The Gryffindor stands, however, weren't cheering at all. The whispers there were sharper.
"It wasn't magic — it was darkness.""Did you see how it froze? Like time stopped—" That's not Hogwarts magic."
Theo and Draco, down near the front, ignored them entirely. Theo's grin was still wide enough to split his face.
"Thirty-nine points," he said, slapping the table rail. "Highest yet."
Alden didn't react. He merely inclined his head toward the judges' stand, the faintest nod of acknowledgment — not gratitude, just acknowledgment.
Then he turned and began walking toward the exit again, passing the dragon handlers, who stepped aside but didn't take their eyes off him.
One of them — Charlie Weasley again — muttered under his breath,
"You got your score. Hope it was worth it."
Alden didn't even glance his way.
"It always is."
In the champions' tent, the air was warmer but heavier. Fleur sat with her chin on her hand, watching him with a wary, assessing expression. Krum stood apart, his posture stiff, his bandaged arm crossed over his chest. Harry entered a few moments later, his own burn tended, eyes darting between them all.
Ludo Bagman bounced into the center of the tent, his energy painfully at odds with the tension around him.
"Well done, all of you! Spectacular work — absolutely spectacular!"
No one spoke.
He cleared his throat, straightening his vest.
"Now, a quick word before you all go celebrate or, ah, rest! You'll have a nice long break before the second task — February the twenty-fourth, to be precise — but we're giving you something to think about in the meantime!"
He gestured broadly.
"Those golden eggs of yours — you'll notice they open. Inside you'll find the clue to your next challenge! The task will test your ability to prepare — and adapt!"
Alden rolled the egg once in his palm, the blood smear now flaked dry.
"Adaptation," he said quietly. "That's the test of everything, isn't it?"
Bagman laughed uncertainly, as though unsure if it was meant to be rhetorical.
"Well, yes! Quite right, my boy! Very—er—insightful!"
Fleur glanced at him sharply, eyes narrowing.
"You make it sound as if you already know ze answer."
Alden's gaze didn't shift.
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."
Krum gave a small grunt that might have been amusement — or respect. Harry watched, silent, caught between wariness and reluctant curiosity.
The champions were dismissed. They began to drift toward the tent flap one by one — Fleur tossing her hair, Krum muttering something in Bulgarian, Harry lingering to glance once more at the dragon's plume of smoke outside.
Alden was the last to leave.
He paused by the table, brushing a thin layer of frost off the egg's surface. In the warped reflection, the flickering tent light bent around his face — one half in gold, the other in shadow.
The top is quiet, he thought again. But not empty.
And as he stepped back into the noise of the crowd beyond, the canvas flap fell shut behind him — sealing in the silence he carried wherever he went.