The chamber off the Great Hall was colder than usual, torches burning low and steady, their light crawling along the walls like veins of amber through stone. The champions stood in small clusters, each gathering its own temperature of silence.
Krum was first — tall, grim, the outline of a soldier rather than a student. His mother and father stood near him, both with the same dark, angular faces, murmuring to him in Bulgarian too fast for anyone else to catch. His headmaster loomed at his side like a carved sentinel, unreadable behind his thick cloak.
Fleur stood beside Madame Maxime, luminous even beneath the tension. Her younger sister clung to her hand, wide-eyed, while her mother whispered encouragements in rapid French. Fleur's smile never quite reached her eyes.
Harry was there too, tucked between Dumbledore, Molly, and Bill Weasley. The warmth of their conversation was a strange contrast to the rest of the room — small laughter, soft reassurances. Harry looked from one face to the next, uncertain whether to draw strength from their affection or feel guilty for needing it.
And then the door opened again.
Alden entered with Theo beside him, both in their dark robes, the air seeming to tighten around them as though the castle itself took notice. Snape followed in their wake, his presence making the torchlight bend — tall, severe, immaculate. The faint murmur in the room dimmed.
Theo leaned closer, his voice pitched low. "Feels like walking into a lion's den."
"Correction," Alden murmured back. "We brought the lion."
Snape's robes swished faintly as he came to stand just behind them, his expression unreadable. But there was something protective in the angle of his stance — a quiet declaration to anyone who cared to notice that Alden Dreyse was not without guardianship.
No one spoke to them. No one dared. Even Bagman's endless enthusiasm faltered when his eyes caught Snape's. "Ah — yes — well! Everyone's here, splendid!"
The other champions turned in subtle glances. Fleur's eyes flicked to Alden's, curious, cautious. Krum gave a curt nod, something between acknowledgment and challenge. Harry said nothing, but his eyes lingered longer than he meant them to, the tension between them humming like static — tied competitors bound by unspoken recognition.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy.
Snape broke it first, quietly. "You know what's expected," he said, low enough that only Alden and Theo could hear. "Precision. Not bravado."
Theo snorted under his breath. "We left that to Gryffindor."
Alden glanced at him, but there was a trace of amusement in his eyes this time. "You don't have to stay here, Theo."
"Don't be ridiculous," Theo replied, straightening his collar. "You'd probably start quoting philosophers five minutes before the whistle blows. Someone has to make sure you actually walk forward."
Snape's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "For once, I agree with Mr. Nott."
Before Alden could reply, Bagman clapped his hands, the sound booming through the room. "Right then! Champions, please, if you'll follow me to the pitch!"
The group moved as one — Durmstrang's sharp discipline, Beauxbatons' elegance, Gryffindor's nervous eagerness, and Slytherin's measured calm. The door to the field swung open, and the twilight hit them like a wave.
The Quidditch field was gone — replaced by a wall of green, vast and silent. The maze loomed twenty feet high, its leaves glimmering faintly with spell-light, the air around it thick with enchantments that hummed like breath. Beyond it, the stands were filling — a living sea of color and noise, the sound rolling like thunder across the pitch.
Theo whistled softly. "You'd think they were here for a coronation."
Alden's gaze moved over the maze. "In a way, they are."
Snape's eyes shifted to him, dark and knowing. "Do not be poetic, Dreyse. Be practical."
Theo chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You're asking the boy who rewrote a breathing charm to be practical."
"Improved it," Alden corrected absently.
"Semantics."
Bagman's voice carried again, echoing off the hedges as he herded the group toward the staging area. The other champions clustered near their mentors, exchanging quick words, last-minute reassurances.
Alden felt eyes on him — from the stands, from professors, from rivals — and didn't flinch.
Snape leaned close. "You know," he murmured, "I've supervised dozens of arrogant students walk into exams they thought they'd already passed. You're not one of them. That's why I expect you to come back."
Alden looked up at him, surprised by the faint edge of warmth under the man's voice. "Thank you, Professor."
Snape inclined his head once, briefly. "Don't make me regret it."
Theo gave a half-smile. "He means that affectionately."
The crowd's noise swelled again. They could hear the footsteps of professors crossing the field — McGonagall's crisp stride, Moody's uneven gait, Hagrid's heavy steps, Flitwick's lighter ones. The four gathered by Bagman, luminous red stars fixed to their hats. McGonagall's voice carried clearly: "If you get into trouble, send red sparks. We'll find you."
Each champion nodded.
The words were formal. Everyone knew what they really meant: some tasks couldn't be rescued from.
As the others turned to prepare, Alden touched Theo's arm briefly. "Go," he said quietly.
Theo frowned. "I said I wasn't leaving."
"You're not," Alden said, tone calm. "Just… not through the hedge."
Theo studied him for a beat, then nodded once, understanding. "Fine. But if you die, I'm taking your desk."
Alden almost smiled. "Fair trade."
He turned toward the maze, feeling the pulse of the magic like a heartbeat through the soles of his boots. Behind him, Snape's voice came, quiet as shadow.
"Remember—intent defines the spell."
"I know," Alden said without turning.
Theo fell in beside Snape, watching as his friend started toward the gap beneath the hedge — the dark mouth of the maze yawning like a living thing.
The torches along the pitch flickered. From the stands, the voices of thousands rose in waves, and the light of early evening began to fade into a sky freckled with stars.
Theo exhaled, low. "He'll win."
Snape didn't answer. His eyes followed Alden's silhouette until the crowd swallowed it whole. Then he said, softly, "Or he'll change the meaning of winning."
Together, they turned and disappeared beneath the stands, the echo of cheers rolling above them like thunder.
The roar of the crowd hit like a living wave when the champions stepped out onto the field.
The air was gold and violet—the last bruised light of evening spilling over the towers of Hogwarts and into the arena below. Torches ringed the Quidditch pitch, their flames snapping in the wind, mirrored in the countless wands held aloft by students and visitors. The hedges that formed the maze rose before them, black-green and immense, twenty feet high, their tops swaying slightly as if breathing. Enchantments shimmered along the edges like heat haze—veins of power waiting to be disturbed.
The champions walked to their marks in silence. Fleur's silver-blue robes caught the torchlight; Krum's heavy boots ground into the earth. Harry drew a deep breath, shoulders squared, the crowd's adoration swelling around him. And then Alden stepped forward.
The noise changed instantly.
Cheers fractured into a low, rippling hiss—some booing outright, others shouting names: "Dark heir!""Next Grindelwald!""Monster!"
He didn't flinch.
The sky above him was clear, sharp-edged with the first stars, but the noise pressed like storm air, thick with hatred disguised as fear. He felt it brush his skin like static.
He looked up toward the stands. Faces blurred into a single movement of color and mouths. The jeers echoed louder, growing bolder with every second he didn't react. Someone somewhere shouted, "Better hope the maze eats you first!"
Alden's eyes lifted slightly toward the source, calm and unreadable, and whoever had spoken fell quiet.
He scanned the stands once more—and then he found them.
Front row, just behind the enchanted barrier: Theo, half-slouched but smiling in that infuriatingly casual way, pretending to be unimpressed; Daphne beside him, chin tilted high, her hands clasped tightly around the edge of the railing; Tracey and Pansy flanking them, their faces bright and tense; Draco, standing just a little forward, smirking at anyone foolish enough to look their way; and Blaise, immaculate as ever, eyes fixed on Alden, arms crossed, the faintest nod of acknowledgment passing between them.
For all the noise of the crowd, that small section of the world was silent to him.
He focused on them, let the rest dissolve—the chants, the curses, the whispers about darkness. They were just sound now, meaningless air.
He stood straighter. The green of his robes caught the light, the silver trim reflecting the flames in thin, bright lines that looked almost like armor. The myth everyone feared was there in their minds, yes—but he refused to give it life.
Theo cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted something that made the others laugh; Alden couldn't hear the words through the roar, but he caught the shape of them—Don't die stupidly!
A small, real smile ghosted across his lips.
Bagman's amplified voice boomed overhead, full of hollow enthusiasm. "Ladies and gentlemen! The third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin!"
The crowd erupted again—cheers for Harry, for Fleur, for Krum—and still the undercurrent of venom whenever Bagman's tone reached Alden's name.
He tuned it out. The sound didn't matter. The field smelled of grass, torch smoke, and the faint iron tang of magic; he could feel the maze humming ahead of him, the wards pulsing faintly through his feet.
A movement drew his eye—Snape had taken a place among the patrolling professors, his expression as severe as ever, but his gaze lingered on Alden a fraction too long. A silent reminder: Intention defines everything.
Alden breathed out slowly.
When Bagman finished explaining the rules, the crowd cheered again. Harry stepped forward first to wild applause, waving briefly toward the stands where the Weasleys and Hermione stood beaming. Fleur followed the Beauxbatons students on their feet. Krum's Durmstrang supporters raised banners and stamped their boots against the wood of the stands until it shook.
Then it was Alden's turn.
He moved with that same unhurried calm that made people nervous, the sound of his boots steady against the grass. The booing returned—louder now, braver in the mass—but Slytherin rose behind him like a wall of emerald and silver. Their cheers weren't frantic; they were rhythmic, deep, almost martial. A single chant rolled across the field, low and unified: "Dreyse. Dreyse. Dreyse."
The sound of it swallowed the noise from the other houses, not louder, but heavier, grounded.
He didn't look up again. His gaze stayed forward, toward the maze.
And yet, as he passed the point where his friends stood closest, he allowed himself a single glance sideways. Theo met his eyes and gave a mock salute; Daphne mouthed come back. Tracey winked. Blaise didn't move, but his nod said enough.
He drew in a breath that felt almost like peace.
Whatever the maze held—whatever waited within—it couldn't reach what they'd given him.
The whistle hadn't blown yet. The air trembled with anticipation, a living heartbeat shared by thousands. Harry looked at him once from across the field, hesitant, unsure whether to speak.
Alden inclined his head slightly—a gesture of recognition, not rivalry.
And when the noise of the crowd rose again, when the torches flared, and the wind shifted through the hedges, Alden's voice barely moved his lips.
"Let them watch."
Then he turned toward the dark mouth of the maze and waited for the world to fall silent.
The field had gone still.
Not silent—never truly silent, not with thousands of breaths and hearts and whispers—but still, like the air itself was holding its place. The torches burned higher now, green-gold against the dusk, the wind curling around the hedge walls like the beginnings of a storm.
Two champions stood before the mouth of the maze.
Harry Potter—hair untamed, robes slightly crooked, wand already in hand. His eyes were bright, determined, but nervous too—too human for the moment that history was asking of him.
Opposite him stood Alden Dreyse—composed, immaculate, pale light gathering along the edges of his silver-white hair, his wand resting loose at his side, fingers steady as if the air bowed around them. His presence was unnervingly calm, as though the noise and tension of the stadium simply broke apart before touching him.
They were the same height. The same age. The light and dark of Hogwarts.
From the staff platform, Dumbledore watched them both with an expression that no one could read. His hands folded before him, the reflection of the torchlight caught in the half-moons of his spectacles.
To anyone else, they were rivals—one boy hailed as the savior, the other whispered to be the heir of something lost and dangerous. But Dumbledore saw something older.
He had seen this once before—on a hilltop far from here, when the world had been young and foolish enough to think that brilliance couldn't burn everything it touched. He had been on Harry's side of that memory once, standing across from a friend with silver hair and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
He blinked, and the past fell away.
Now the two boys before him said nothing at first. The crowd behind them leaned forward, breathless, waiting for Bagman's whistle.
Harry shifted, his hand tightening around his wand. He looked at Alden, trying to read the faint, expressionless calm. Everyone had an opinion about him—rumors of dark magic, of brilliance, of danger—but up close, Harry only saw distance, like looking into glass that reflected everything but itself.
Alden's eyes met his. The color was strange in this light—not green, not grey, but something metallic and unreadable. "Potter," he said quietly, voice calm as a lake before a storm.
Harry blinked. "Yeah?"
Alden's tone didn't change. "Good luck."
It wasn't condescending. It wasn't cold. It was simply… real.
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "You too."
The corner of Alden's mouth curved—barely a smile, more the suggestion of one. "We'll see which of us finds the center first."
"Reckon I'll make you work for it," Harry said, trying for humor, though his throat felt tight.
"You already have."
Dumbledore's gaze flicked briefly toward Snape, who stood at the far perimeter like a shadow carved from the same air. The Potions Master's face betrayed nothing, but his posture was rigid, his eyes on the silver-haired boy as if the world might collapse around that single point of focus.
Bagman's amplified voice boomed out, a thunderclap over the field. "Champions ready?"
Harry straightened. Alden merely inclined his head.
"Three…"
The crowd leaned in, a thousand lungs drawing breath together.
"Two…"
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in understanding. He saw the contrast in full now: Harry's earnest, burning faith; Alden's controlled, almost reverent stillness. Fire and frost. Intention and restraint.
"One—"
The whistle cut the sky apart.
Alden and Harry moved at the same instant—two shadows crossing the threshold into the waiting dark.
The maze swallowed them whole, and for a heartbeat after they vanished, Dumbledore could still see them in memory: two paths diverging under the same light, bound to meet again when the world demanded it.
And as the crowd erupted into noise behind him, he whispered—too softly for anyone else to hear—"History, it seems, never tires of repeating its favorite mistakes."