Morning broke with a strange, brittle brightness—the kind that made the lake look like glass and the castle too quiet. The air itself seemed to know what day it was. June twenty-fourth. The last day of the Tournament.
By breakfast, the Great Hall hummed like a charged wand. House tables gleamed beneath the flood of enchanted sunlight; banners hung heavy with expectation. The Triwizard banners—the serpent, the stag, the fleur-de-lis—had been re-enchanted overnight to shimmer faintly, the colors pulsing with every shout and laugh.
When Harry Potter entered, Gryffindor House rose as one."Go on, Harry!" "Show them!" "The Cup's yours, mate!"
The sound rolled through the Hall, waves of scarlet and gold. Even Hufflepuff joined in—part solidarity, part superstition that cheering for him might protect them from Alden Dreyse's silent kind of victory.
At the Slytherin table, Alden didn't look up. His spoon moved once through his tea, slow, deliberate, the silver swirling light across the dark surface. Theo leaned in, voice pitched low beneath the cheering.
"They sound like a war's already been won."
Alden's lips curved faintly. "Wars always start that way."
Daphne's glance flicked toward the Gryffindor table. "You'd think Potter was walking into heaven, not a hedge full of deathtraps."
Tracey snorted softly. "Maybe he's planning to ask the maze to surrender."
That earned the smallest smirk from Alden—gone before it fully formed. Across the hall, McGonagall's sharp stride cut through the noise as she approached Harry. The announcement carried clearly even through the chatter:
"Potter, the champions are to meet in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast. The families have arrived."
The Hall quieted at that. A few exchanged looks; the Weasleys were already a known rumor. Someone from Ravenclaw muttered, "Wonder who Dreyse's bringing—his solicitor?" Laughter, brittle and forced.
Harry looked up at McGonagall, startled. "But—it's not till tonight!"
"I am aware," she said crisply. "This is merely a chance to greet your visitors."
Her robes flared as she turned and swept away.
Harry blinked at his friends, color rising to his face. "She doesn't expect the Dursleys, does she?"
Ron grinned around a mouthful of toast. "If she does, they'll run screaming before the first ghost."
Hermione elbowed him. "Honestly, Ronald."
But the tension under the laughter was real—this was the day. The Third Task. The maze had grown taller than the stands now; last night, it had looked alive in the moonlight.
When Harry finally stood to leave, the noise returned—cheers, clapping, a few red-and-gold scarves waved like banners of victory. He looked embarrassed but smiled, the sound buoying him.
Then, when Alden rose, the air changed.
The scrape of his chair was soft, but it was enough. Heads turned. Slytherin erupted—green fire and applause echoing up to the enchanted ceiling. But from the other tables came a different noise: hisses, jeers, a dull, rolling disapproval.
"Go on, Dreyse! Let's see what the Dark Lord's heir can do!" someone shouted from Gryffindor.
Another voice—older, sharper, from the prefects' table—cut through: "Better keep your head down in there, Dreyse! Maze like that loves snakes."
Laughter scattered around the room.
Alden stopped beside his bench, wand hand resting idly against his sleeve. He turned his head just enough to find the source of the voice: a tall Gryffindor prefect with a badge gleaming smugly against his chest.
"Who," Alden asked quietly, "even are you?"
The hall went still.
It wasn't shouted. It wasn't cruel. Just a scalpel made of words—precise, calm, and terrifyingly indifferent.
The prefect flushed, half-opening his mouth before McGonagall's voice cut in from the dais. "That will be quite enough. All of you."
She didn't look at Alden, but the edge in her tone warned the rest.
Slytherin's laughter picked up again, sharper now—Theo's unmistakable chuckle first, then Tracey's. Draco thumped the table with the flat of his hand, grinning. "Perfect," he murmured. "Simply perfect."
Alden's expression didn't change. He straightened his collar, lifted his cup, and drained the last of his tea like a man completing a ritual.
When he set it down, the ring on his finger caught the light—a flicker of silver across the emerald glow.
"Shall we?" he said quietly to Theo, who was already standing beside him.
Daphne gave a small nod; Draco raised his cup in a mock toast.
As Alden and Theo crossed the Hall, the whispers followed—dark, bright, contradictory, hungry. Murderer. Prodigy. Heir. Champion. The castle swallowed them one by one, but the sound clung to the air like smoke long after the doors closed behind him.
Outside, the corridors were cooler. Stone sighed. The din of breakfast faded. Alden exhaled once, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Careful," Theo said lightly. "You'll ruin your reputation for indifference."
Alden glanced sideways at him. "They make that easy."
Theo laughed softly. "They do, don't they?"
And the two boys walked on toward the side chamber—one calm, one smiling—and behind them, the Great Hall carried on cheering for a different kind of champion.
The side chamber off the Great Hall was dressed like an afterthought of celebration. Sunlight spilled through narrow windows, striking banners from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang where they hung beside Hogwarts' own. The air smelled faintly of parchment polish and anticipation. Fleur's laughter rang in French near the hearth, her mother's voice lilting in reply; Gabrielle tugged at her sleeve and waved when Harry entered, all bright-eyed and innocent.
Across the room, Viktor Krum stood like a sentry beside his dark-haired parents, their conversation hushed and fluid in Bulgarian. His father's hooked nose caught the light; his mother's sharp profile matched his.
At the center, by the fire, stood Bill and Molly Weasley. They turned as Harry approached, faces lit with warmth that filled the space.
"Surprise!" said Molly, voice bubbling with pride. "Thought we'd come and watch you, dear." She kissed him on the cheek, and Bill clapped him on the shoulder with the easy affection of an older brother.
"Charlie wanted to come," Bill said. "He said you were incredible against the Short-Snout."
Harry smiled sheepishly. Fleur was already pretending not to watch Bill, though her mother noticed, lips curling in quiet amusement.
The air felt comfortable, full of low laughter and small talk—until the door at the far end opened again.
Two figures entered: Alden Dreyse and Theodore Nott.
Conversation faltered.
It wasn't dramatic—just the kind of silence that happens when everyone tries not to stare but fails anyway. The contrast was too sharp: Harry with family warmth at his back, Alden with Theo beside him, black-robed, expression unreadable.
McGonagall's quill stilled mid-note. "Mr. Dreyse," she said, careful neutrality in her tone. "You may—ah—introduce your… guest."
Theo, unbothered, raised a brow. Alden's reply was quiet, clipped. "He's family."
Fleur blinked, unsure whether to smile. Krum gave a noncommittal grunt. Molly Weasley's fingers tightened around her bag, eyes flicking between the two boys and the empty space behind them.
Before anyone could question it further, the door swung open once more. Severus Snape stepped in, his robes cutting through the silence like black water.
"That will suffice," he said smoothly, gaze sweeping the room before settling on Alden. "I'll do for family this time."
The statement hung heavy. Even the portraits on the wall seemed to pause in disbelief.
Harry's stomach dropped. Fleur's mother blinked. Molly's polite smile faltered, just a fraction, before she smoothed it back into place.
Snape moved to stand just behind Alden's shoulder—his presence not protective, but anchoring. "Well?" he said softly, glancing toward McGonagall. "You did say families."
"Indeed," she murmured, lips tight. "Carry on."
The tension in the air thickened.
Bill broke it first, his voice deceptively mild. "Never thought I'd see the day an Auror-class dragon killer brought his professor to tea."
Theo's head tilted. "He didn't bring him. He followed the smell of fire."
Snape's lip twitched, half a smirk. But Alden's gaze shifted to Bill—steady, detached. "You must be William Weasley. Curse-breaker. Egypt, was it?"
Bill's grin stiffened. "That's right. We study dark magic too—though we prefer not to practice it."
A faint murmur rippled around the room.
"Perhaps that's why it keeps defeating you," Alden replied.
The stillness was immediate. Even Theo blinked, caught off guard by the calm venom in his tone.
Molly stepped forward slightly, voice gentler but edged. "Mr. Dreyse, we know your family's… history. The Dreyses were always said to be talented, but dark."
Alden turned toward her. "Dark is relative, Mrs. Weasley. My parents were scholars, not soldiers. They studied magic, not politics."
"Neutrality," she said quietly, "doesn't always save you."
Something passed across Alden's face—a flicker of something too quick to read. "No," he agreed softly. "It doesn't."
Bill folded his arms. "Maybe if they hadn't been experimenting with things better left buried, they'd have been alive to teach you that."
Snape's eyes narrowed, his voice slicing in before Alden's could rise. "You presume much for someone whose idea of courage involves cowering behind bank wards."
Bill's jaw tightened. "Funny, coming from a man who hid behind a mask."
The words cracked the air like a whip. Theo's wand hand twitched before Alden lifted a finger, stopping him.
Alden's reply came measured, voice low but carrying. "If you're implying that studying what others fear makes one a monster, then perhaps you should lock your curse vaults as well. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it, Weasley?"
Bill's nostrils flared. "Maybe your family should've fallen further from theirs. Dark wizards deserve to die."
A beat of silence.
Alden's expression didn't change. "Then perhaps," he said evenly, "I should wipe your family from existence and see what that makes Ron. Would you wager he'd still grow into a decent wizard without the rest of you?"
The air went cold.
Even Moody—who had been leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows—shifted, one scarred brow arching. Fleur stopped speaking mid-sentence; her sister looked between them, wide-eyed.
Molly's hand flew to her chest. "That's enough."
Snape's tone dropped to a deadly calm. "Agreed. My student does not make idle threats."
That, somehow, was worse.
Krum muttered something in Bulgarian that sounded vaguely approving. Fleur avoided everyone's eyes. Harry felt the unease crawl up his spine; this wasn't posturing—it was an exchange between predators pretending to be civil.
McGonagall, perhaps sensing it, clapped her hands once. "That will do! The champions' families may now spend time with their own before the task. Please—make use of the grounds if you wish."
The tension broke, thin and brittle. Conversations restarted in uneasy fragments.
Harry turned back to the Weasleys. Bill's jaw was still set like stone; Molly's face was pale, lips pressed thin.
Alden inclined his head faintly toward McGonagall. "If that concludes matters, Professor, I'll be on the grounds."
Snape's eyes met his—a silent exchange. The faintest nod passed between them.
Theo trailed after him, hands in pockets, muttering, "You do have a gift for making friends."
"Only honest ones," Alden replied quietly.
Snape fell into step beside them, his voice a dry whisper meant for Alden alone. "You handled yourself."
Alden glanced sideways. "I nearly didn't."
"That," Snape said, "is what restraint looks like."
The door shut behind them with a heavy click, sealing the murmurs and judgment inside. The corridor outside was cooler, quieter—the echo of conflict fading to the rhythm of footsteps.
Three figures moved through it together: teacher, pupil, and the one friend who understood the space between silence and survival.
The Great Hall was half full when they reentered, and the sound of conversation broke against the stone like low surf—uneasy, expectant, unaware. The earlier whispers from the side chamber had travelled faster than fire through parchment; by the time Bill Weasley's boots struck the threshold, heads were already turning.
He didn't bother lowering his voice.
"Dark family, dark child," he said, loud enough for his words to echo against the rafters. "You threaten my mother's life and think you can walk away from it?"
The noise died at once. Forks froze mid-air.
Alden and Theo had barely crossed the entryway. Snape's robes followed like a shadow stitched to their heels.
The Gryffindor table went from chatter to silence, faces turning one by one. Fred and George looked up sharply; Ron was already half standing. Ginny's eyes darted between her brother and Alden, confusion bright as shock.
Theo exhaled through his nose. "Here we go," he muttered.
Bill took another step forward. "You think because your family toyed with curses and called it scholarship that you can stand there and talk about wiping people out? You think you're untouchable because you're Dreyse's son?"
The last name cut the room open.
A murmur rippled through the crowd—confusion, recognition, disbelief. "Dreyse?" someone whispered from Ravenclaw. "His parents were researchers—dark magic theorists, weren't they?"
"Experimenters," another corrected. "They got themselves killed in the war."
Alden didn't flinch. His face was unreadable, too calm for the heat around him. "If you're going to accuse me," he said evenly, "at least make it accurate. I didn't threaten to wipe anyone out. I asked whether what remained would still be worth anything."
The distinction only fanned the tension.
Ron shot to his feet, wand already in hand. "You're insane! You think you can talk about my family like that?"
Theo's hand brushed his own wand, more out of habit than intent. "Why can't we ever have a normal day?" he muttered, almost to himself.
Fred and George rose beside their brother, their wands raised in a synchronized motion born from a lifetime of pranks, but their faces were stone-serious now.
All along the Gryffindor table, chairs scraped back, scarlet robes flaring. Dean, Seamus, and even Neville stood, eyes flicking between Harry—who hadn't moved—and Alden.
Harry felt the room tighten around him like a coiled spring.
The Slytherins rose too—not jeering, but silent, deliberate. Green and silver against red and gold. Draco at their front, wand loose but ready, a grin pulling at his mouth. Pansy's expression was sharp enough to cut glass; Blaise leaned back, calculating angles.
The distance between tables felt like a fault line waiting to split.
Bill turned in the center of it, addressing the room now, his voice swelling with righteous anger. "You all heard him! That's what his family was—what he is! The Dreyses dabbled in the Dark Arts so long that they forgot what side they were on. And now he's threatening the same."
Murmurs rose—"Dark wizards deserve what they got," "He's no better than You-Know-Who"—each louder than the last.
Alden's reply came soft, cutting clean through the noise. "You speak as if you were there. Tell me, Weasley, how many wars have you read about instead of fought?"
The insult hung, perfect and quiet.
Bill's face flushed red. "You're exactly what people say you are. A danger. If there's a reason your family's gone, maybe the world corrected its own mistake."
The crowd inhaled, a collective hiss.
Alden took a step forward, eyes pale and steady. "Careful," he said softly. "You're standing awfully close to the line between justice and arrogance."
Bill opened his mouth—
"Enough."
Snape's voice rolled through the Hall like a cold wind, silencing everything. He stepped between them, black robes fanning out like shadow given shape. "You should thank him, Mr. Weasley. If Alden truly wanted to make good on his so-called threat, your family would be nothing more than a memory—and your brother," his head inclined toward Ron, "the only one left to tell the story. Hardly a tragedy worth mourning."
A collective gasp. McGonagall was already moving, her tartan robes slicing through the frozen air.
"Severus!" she hissed. "That will do."
"Will it?" Snape said, voice like ice cracking. "You allow a grown man to publicly provoke my student in front of the school and call it moral superiority. And yet you call me reckless."
McGonagall's wand hand trembled—not from fear, but fury. "You are a teacher. You should know better than to feed a fire like this."
"And he," Snape shot back, "should know better than to think he can throw accusations and hide behind his mother's apron."
Molly's voice, low and shaking, rose between them. "You're all talking about children."
"Are we?" Snape turned, eyes glinting. "Then perhaps teach yours to stop acting like executioners."
By now, students from all Houses had drawn wands. Gryffindors leaned forward in outrage; Slytherins mirrored them, calm but ready. The tension hummed—an invisible current ready to ignite.
Dumbledore appeared between the tables without sound. No door, no footstep. Just sudden stillness and the soft weight of power.
"That," he said quietly, "will be enough."
Every torch in the room flickered.
The wands lowered, slowly, as if compelled by the calm gravity of his voice. He looked first to Snape, then to Alden, then to Bill.
"Mr. Dreyse, Mr. Nott," he said, tone steady, "you will accompany Professor Snape back to his office."
Theo muttered under his breath, "Brilliant. Detention by proxy."
Dumbledore's eyes moved to McGonagall. "Minerva, please see to the Weasleys—and to Mr. Potter. I believe we all could use a moment of quiet reflection before the final task."
McGonagall nodded sharply, still pale with restrained fury. "Of course, Headmaster."
The Slytherins obeyed first—lowering their wands, falling into murmured clusters. Gryffindors glared, uncertain, the taste of outrage still bitter in their mouths.
Alden turned as he followed Snape toward the doors. His gaze flicked once toward Bill—no anger, just a kind of clinical curiosity. "You should be careful, Weasley," he said quietly, almost conversational. "Hatred has a way of teaching its lessons back."
Then he was gone.
The heavy doors closed behind him, and the Great Hall exhaled at last, the echoes of what almost was hanging in the rafters like smoke.
The hallway outside the Great Hall felt too narrow for how many tempers it was holding. Footsteps struck the flagstones like an argument carried by rhythm—Weasleys on one side, Slytherins on the other, McGonagall and Harry caught between them like thin mortar between walls about to split.
The air still vibrated faintly from the echoes of what had just happened. Teachers had peeled off to control the crowd, but the heat hadn't gone anywhere—it had only condensed.
Fred muttered something dark under his breath. George answered, sharper. Ron walked beside Harry, still flushed red and gripping his wand like he expected to be attacked from behind.
"How can Dumbledore just let him walk?" Ron burst out, finally, voice echoing down the corridor. "He threatened to—he said he'd wipe us out! You heard him!"
McGonagall's lips tightened, her voice cutting through the rising noise. "Mr. Weasley, enough. The situation is already being handled."
"Handled?" Ron snapped. "He threatened our family in front of everyone! What if he meant it?"
"He meant it," came a lazy, drawling voice from behind them.
Draco Malfoy, leaning against the archway where Slytherin's corridor branched off, smirked as if the whole affair had been staged for his amusement. Pansy, Blaise, and two other sixth-years lounged nearby, their green ties loose and eyes bright with malicious delight.
"You lot really are slow," Draco went on, folding his arms. "Dreyse doesn't bluff. He doesn't need to."
Ginny's eyes flashed as she turned. "Says the boy who hides behind other people every time someone raises a wand."
Draco's smirk curved higher. "At least I don't hide behind a family name that sounds like a joke. The Weasleys—pathetic, poor, and perpetually reproducing."
Fred and George both took a step forward in perfect sync, but McGonagall's arm barred their path before they could say a word.
"Enough," she warned.
But Blaise Zabini stepped forward anyway—tall, immaculate, voice as smooth as glass."I've always thought," he said conversationally, "that it would be better for everyone if the Weasley brood didn't exist at all. Filthy blood-traitors, breeding with anything that looks their way. You make both sides of the war look worse."
Ginny froze. Her face went pale, then red, then pale again.
Harry felt his stomach twist. "You can't just—"
"I can," Blaise interrupted, smiling faintly. "Someone has to say it. People talk about Dreyse being dangerous, but at least he doesn't pretend to be righteous while living off hand-me-downs and half-truths."
The silence that followed was almost physical. Even Draco blinked, caught off guard by how far Blaise had gone.
Ron lunged first. Harry grabbed his arm just in time, and McGonagall stepped between them with the speed of a striking hawk.
"That will do!" she said sharply, her wand raised between both groups now. "One more word from either side, and you will all be serving detention until next term!"
Fred and George were breathing hard, glaring daggers at Blaise, who simply tilted his head, eyes cool and amused. Pansy was grinning outright.
McGonagall turned to the Slytherins, her voice low and dangerous. "Back to your common room. Now."
Draco pushed off the wall, pretending to look bored. "Come on," he said, though the glint in his eyes said he was enjoying every second. "Let the blood-traitors simmer."
Blaise gave a shallow bow to McGonagall—mocking, elegant. "Professor." Then he turned, his robes whispering across the stone as he left.
Ginny's voice broke through after them, trembling with rage. "They think they're better than everyone—him, all of them!"
Harry looked at her, unsure what to say. Everything felt off-balance. Alden Dreyse wasn't like Malfoy or Blaise—he didn't sneer, didn't gloat—but he was dangerous. Everyone knew it. Everyone had seen it in his eyes.
McGonagall sighed softly, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry years. "Miss Weasley," she said, gentler now, "not everyone who walks in darkness has chosen to."
Ginny frowned, thrown. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," McGonagall said, "that some people were born in shadow and never taught where the light begins."
The Weasleys exchanged looks, unsettled, unsure whether she was excusing him or warning them.
"Come," she said finally, straightening her hat. "We have a task to prepare for, and I will not have the corridors turning into dueling rings."
Harry fell into step beside her as they walked. Behind him, the Gryffindors still muttered angrily under their breath, and he could feel Slytherin's eyes watching from the far end of the hall.
When they turned the corner, he glanced back once—just in time to see Blaise at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall again, smirking.
Not at him.
At the door Snape had disappeared through minutes earlier, leading Alden Dreyse and Theo Nott away.
And somehow, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that everything in the castle had tilted—just slightly—toward the edge of something irreversible.
The courtyard was a half-lit storm of sound and motion. Students milled across the flagstones in restless clusters, their voices low, their eyes darting toward Alden Dreyse and the green-clad figures around him. The air itself seemed to hum with unfinished argument—snatches of whispers about the Great Hall incident, threads of rumor already twisting into something larger.
Alden didn't look at them. His circle had gathered close, forming an unspoken barrier against the rest of Hogwarts.
Theo Nott leaned against the old courtyard fountain, arms folded, watching the light play across the marble surface of the water. "You'd think the end of the world was scheduled for tonight," he said dryly. "Everyone's staring like they're waiting for lightning."
Tracey Davis was sitting on the edge of the fountain, swinging one leg. "They're just wondering whether to cheer or run when you win."
"That's generous," Daphne said, her tone softer. "Half of them still think he's going to conjure the Dark Mark in the sky when he does."
Alden looked between them, faint amusement flickering at the edges of his stillness. "You're all terrible at pep talks."
"Comes with being realistic," Theo replied.
Draco arrived last—robes immaculate, expression defensive even in loyalty. He looked at Alden, then at the ring on his hand, then back up again. "You shouldn't let them get to you," he said finally. "They wouldn't know power if it dragged them out of bed by their hair."
"I'm not angry," Alden said quietly. "I just wish they'd choose a version of me and be consistent about it."
Pansy arched an eyebrow. "You're asking Hogwarts for consistency?"
Tracey laughed, bright and sharp. "He might as well ask Peeves for quiet."
That earned the faintest smile. It passed quickly, but it was there—enough to soften the lines around his eyes.
The group fell into silence for a moment. The sound of wind through the arches filled it—the low sigh of stone and history.
Daphne reached for his hand before he could pull it back, her fingers brushing over the runic ring that glinted faintly under the waning light. "Come back soon," she murmured, her thumb tracing the sigils. "Preferably alive. I don't care how impressive dying would look."
Theo smirked. "If you get lost in the hedge, shout. I'll pretend not to hear, but it's the thought that counts."
"Touching," Blaise muttered, though there was the faintest warmth in his voice. His gaze swept the courtyard, eyes like cut obsidian. "Let them stare. None of them matters."
Alden tilted his head. "You say that as though you don't enjoy it."
"I enjoy the irony," Blaise said simply. "That a school full of mediocre wizards can decide what kind of man you are based on what they're afraid to understand."
Draco's hand found his shoulder then—hesitant but firm. "Make them watch you think," he said, words low, meant only for their small circle. "That's what terrifies them the most."
Alden looked at each of them—the only people in the castle who spoke to him like he was still a person, not a headline or prophecy. Theo with his half-joking fatalism; Tracey with her sharp humor; Daphne with her quiet steadiness; Blaise with his elegance and scorn; Draco with his pride, trying to hide sincerity.
He didn't trust words much. But they deserved them.
"Thank you," he said softly. "All of you."
For a moment, no one spoke. The courtyard wind caught his hair, silver-white against the green of his robes, and the torches along the walls flickered as if the castle itself were listening.
"Don't thank us yet," Theo said. "You still have to win. And not die."
"That too," Alden said.
A group of Hufflepuffs passed nearby, whispering. One of them shot Alden a glare; another made the sign warding off the evil eye. Blaise's eyes narrowed, but Alden raised a hand, stopping him before he could speak.
"Let it go," Alden murmured. "They'll believe what they need to."
Daphne's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, searching for something unspoken. "You're ready for this?"
He looked past her to the horizon—the maze waiting somewhere beyond the castle walls, the faint hum of wards in the air already stirring. "Ready enough."
Draco gave a curt nod. "Then we'll be waiting. When it's over, make sure the first thing you do is walk back through those doors."
Alden turned toward the castle. The last light of the afternoon fell across the courtyard like molten gold, catching the silver threads in his hair. He stood for a heartbeat longer, listening to the noise of students, the whisper of banners, the pulse of something ancient beneath his feet.
Then he smiled—small, genuine, fleeting. "I'll try," he said, and walked toward the coming storm.
The Great Hall that evening felt like a battlefield waiting for a command.
The enchanted ceiling hung heavy and low, clouds gathering where stars should have been, violet bleeding into indigo as the light waned. Every candle in the chandeliers burned too steadily—flames like held breath. The noise was wrong too; it wasn't chatter so much as murmuring—words bitten short, stares drawn long.
Slytherin had taken the far end of their table as if defending a fortress. The emerald banners above seemed darker than usual, almost black against the flickering gold of the hall. Alden sat at the center, unmoved, the faintest light catching the edges of his hair like silver wire.
Theo lounged beside him, pretending to read the label on a bottle of pumpkin juice. "I'm not saying you look like you're about to walk into mortal peril," he murmured, "but the atmosphere is doing you no favors."
Tracey stabbed a potato with theatrical care. "It's like dining inside a funeral. Someone coughs too loudly, and we'll all be hexed."
Across from them, Daphne's gaze moved between the other tables. "They're waiting for him to slip," she said softly. "Half the school wants to see him fall, just to prove they're right."
Blaise smirked faintly, slicing his roast with delicate precision. "And the other half wants to see how far he'll go before he does. People always love a villain in theory—until he wins."
Alden ate slowly, calmly, his hands steady even under the weight of a hundred eyes. He didn't rise to it; he never did. The storm in the hall seemed to crash around him and break itself against his silence.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron's voice wasn't even a whisper. "Hope he doesn't come back from that maze."
Fred, for once, didn't joke. "Wouldn't mind if he got lost in there forever."
Ginny frowned, though she didn't look away. "That's enough."
"It's not enough," Ron hissed. "He threatened Mum. He threatened us."
Bill leaned close, jaw tight, whispering something low that made Ron flush red again. Harry didn't join in. He sat at the edge of the bench, eyes fixed on his plate, not eating.
He felt the tension radiating like heat—between tables, between breaths. When he looked toward the Slytherins, he saw them coiled around Alden like a living wall, every student's wand within reach, their glares sharp as drawn blades.
Theo's voice broke the quiet hum near Alden. "I think Weasley's still trying to invent new ways to insult you."
"I've run out of room in my notebook," Tracey said lightly. "I'm starting a second volume."
Daphne leaned in slightly, tone barely audible. "Ignore them. You always do."
Alden's fork paused. His eyes lifted just once—toward the Gryffindor table, where laughter didn't sound like laughter anymore. "Ignoring," he said, "is easy. Forgetting isn't."
Blaise's smirk faded into something sharper. "Then don't forget. Just make sure they regret remembering."
That drew a faint look from Daphne—half warning, half understanding. "He doesn't need help making enemies."
Theo's grin was tired. "No. But he's excellent at keeping them nervous."
At the staff table, Bagman was talking animatedly to Fudge, who looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else. Madame Maxime sat stiffly beside Hagrid, her face pale, eyes rimmed red. Dumbledore, at the center, watched the hall in silence, one hand resting lightly on the table. His gaze drifted once toward Alden—and lingered.
Dinner stretched like a drawn-out note. No one ate much. Every scrape of cutlery sounded like the start of a duel.
When Dumbledore finally stood, the hall fell instantly still. Even the candles seemed to dim.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice clear but quiet, "in five minutes' time, we shall make our way to the Quidditch field for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament."
A murmur swept through the hall.
"Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now?"
Harry pushed back his chair. The noise that followed him was thunderous—cheers, claps, cries of "You've got this, Harry!" erupting from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, Ravenclaws joining in, voices echoing up into the enchanted ceiling.
Alden didn't move.
When he finally stood, the cheers died like snuffed flame.
A hiss rolled through the hall instead—whispers, jeers, the scrape of someone's shoe against stone. A student from Ravenclaw muttered something under his breath. Another from Hufflepuff laughed nervously.
Slytherin moved as one. The students around him stood—not in salute, but in solidarity, eyes fixed coldly on the others.
Draco called across the hall, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Try booing again, and see what happens."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Alden adjusted his sleeve, expression unreadable, and walked the length of the hall. The sound of his boots was the only thing anyone could hear.
Theo and Daphne fell into step behind him. Blaise followed, hands in his pockets, his face wearing that same immaculate indifference. Draco lingered a moment longer, smirking at the Gryffindors before turning away.
As the great doors opened, the evening light poured in—gold turned to rust, the world outside hushed with expectation. Alden paused at the threshold, his hand brushing the edge of the doorframe, as if feeling the heartbeat of the castle one last time.
He looked back—not at the students or the teachers—but at his friends.
"Ready?" Theo asked quietly.
Alden nodded once. "Always."
And together, they stepped into the dying light, leaving behind a hall divided by fear, loyalty, and something far older than either—belief.