Rain had fallen in the night, leaving the castle cloaked in a damp chill that crept through the stone floors and hung in the air like breath from an unseen beast. The Great Hall shimmered faintly with candlelight, though even the enchanted ceiling seemed subdued—grey, heavy clouds rolling above, mirroring the mood of the gathered school below.
Every table was filled. Students murmured in uneasy tones, voices low and sharp as the flicker of their reflections in goblets of pumpkin juice. The younger years fidgeted, sensing the tension even if they didn't understand it. In the fifth year, more aware, whispered guesses and half-truths between tight jaws.
"He's really doing it, then?""Has to". They say Dumbledore made him.""Bet he gets expelled after."
The sound of a single teacup being set down—delicately, almost theatrically—cut through the noise. At the staff table, Professor Umbridge smiled into the steam rising from her cup, her pink cardigan almost blinding against the muted tones of the hall. The lace bow at her throat quivered slightly as she hummed a tune only she could find pleasant. She looked delighted, as though the entire gathering were her triumph.
Beside her, Dumbledore sat still, hands folded loosely, the expression behind his half-moon spectacles unreadable. Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed thin, and Snape, further down the table, seemed carved from shadow itself—his gaze fixed upon the far doors.
They opened with a quiet groan.
Alden Dreyse stepped through.
The sound of conversation died immediately, as if someone had drawn the air out of the room. His silver-white hair caught the cold morning light, pale against his black robes. He walked with the controlled grace of someone who had already accepted judgment long before the trial began. Behind him, Daphne Greengrass and Theo Nott followed a few hesitant paces, but when Alden reached the center aisle, he gave a small shake of his head. They stopped.
He continued alone.
Every step echoed. The soft tap of his shoes on stone seemed impossibly loud in the cavernous hall. Eyes followed him—some curious, some hateful, some filled with a strange, secret sympathy.
When he reached the dais, he bowed his head slightly, not to Umbridge, but to Dumbledore. The Headmaster rose with quiet dignity.
"We are gathered this morning," Dumbledore began, his voice steady and low, "at the request of the Ministry's representative, Professor Umbridge, to address an incident that occurred yesterday in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Mr. Dreyse has prepared a statement."
He turned to Alden, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them—understanding, sorrow, trust.
Umbridge stood, clasping her hands.
"It is so encouraging," she said, voice dripping honey, "to see a young man accept responsibility for his… momentary lapse. We must all learn humility, mustn't we?"
Her smile was wide and fragile, like porcelain that had already begun to crack.
Alden inclined his head. "Of course, Professor."
He turned then to face the hall, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing, only letting the silence draw taut as a bowstring. A draft moved through the hall, setting the candles trembling.
"Yesterday," Alden began quietly, "I spoke out of turn."
The words were calm, measured—too calm, some thought. His voice carried easily, the stillness amplifying every syllable.
"I threatened a professor at this school. It was reckless. Wrong. And for that, I offer my apology."
Whispers flitted down the tables like dry leaves. Umbridge's smile brightened, satisfied.
"I lost my temper," Alden continued, tone steady, "and let anger decide my words. It will not happen again."
Dumbledore gave a faint nod, as though acknowledging the necessary formalities had been met. But Alden did not stop speaking.
"Yet," he said, and that small word drew everyone's attention, "words, even careless ones, often come from truth. And sometimes, when those meant to protect truth bury it beneath fear, the young forget their place trying to uncover it."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—an uncertain sound, caught between awe and alarm.
Umbridge's smile froze. "Mr. Dreyse—"
"I only mean," Alden went on, voice soft but clear, "that faith in our institutions should never come at the cost of honesty. When fear governs policy, when suspicion governs classrooms, perhaps it is not the students who've forgotten their lessons."
Now even Dumbledore was watching him with quiet intensity. Snape's eyes narrowed; McGonagall's fingers tightened around her quill.
Alden's gaze swept the room once, lingering on the faces that had jeered at him, whispered names, and looked away. Then he concluded:
"So I apologize, Professor. I truly do. And I promise—I'll choose my words more carefully next time."
He inclined his head again, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.
The hall was silent, the air thick enough to choke on.
Then, from somewhere among the Ravenclaws, a single pair of hands clapped once. It was quickly joined by another, and another—nervous, uncertain applause that faltered when Umbridge's expression curdled.
She rose, her voice pitched in sugary triumph.
"Thank you, Mr. Dreyse. What a heartfelt apology. Let this be a reminder that contrition is the first step to rehabilitation."
Her teacup gave a sharp crack as she set it down.
Dumbledore's voice followed quietly.
"Indeed, Dolores. Though some might say understanding is the first step."
He met Alden's eyes once more and inclined his head. "You may return to your seat."
But Alden didn't. He bowed, just slightly, and turned toward the exit instead. As he passed between the rows of students, their whispers chased him like smoke.
"Did you hear what he said?""That wasn't an apology.""He'll end up in Azkaban before Christmas."
Daphne and Theo fell into step behind him, silent shadows.
At the staff table, Umbridge lifted her cup to hide her scowl, unaware that faint cracks had begun to spider across the porcelain surface.
And from the high windows above, the morning light broke through the grey clouds—brief, sharp, and fleeting—catching on the silver of Alden's hair as he left the hall without a word.
Breakfast had resumed in uneasy silence after Alden's departure, though hardly anyone ate. The tension hung so thickly it felt like smoke, filling every breath, clinging to every whisper. Knives scraped plates without appetite; even the enchanted ceiling seemed to hold its breath.
At the staff table, Professor Umbridge had not stopped whispering since the moment Alden left. Her pink cardigan looked almost feverishly bright against the dim light, and each word she hissed was soaked in sugar and venom.
"You heard him, Albus. Every syllable was an attack on the Ministry itself! He practically threatened me in front of the whole school. The subtext was unmistakable. A child like that should not be permitted to remain here."
Dumbledore didn't look up from his plate; he was calmly slicing a piece of toast as though she were commenting on the weather.
"He apologized," he said quietly. "Eloquently, I thought."
Umbridge's jaw clenched. "It was mockery! You could hear it in his tone!"
Professor McGonagall, who had been buttering her own toast with deliberate precision, spoke without looking up.
"Perhaps you heard what you wanted to hear, Dolores."
Umbridge turned a mottled shade of pink. "He suggested the Ministry is ruled by fear! That we stifle truth! I won't tolerate that kind of subversion under this roof."
Snape, who had been staring at his black coffee as though contemplating hexing it, murmured silkily,
"You requested the apology, Madam. Not its sincerity."
Several teachers shifted, hiding their smirks behind cups and napkins.
Umbridge's eyes flashed. "Do not take that tone with me, Severus. An attack on me is an attack on the Ministry—and an attack on the Ministry is an attack on the wizarding world's stability. Surely you, of all people, understand the importance of order."
Snape's gaze lifted, slow and sharp as a blade.
"Oh, I understand the order perfectly. It's the people enforcing it that often fail the definition."
Dumbledore sighed softly before the inevitable explosion could occur. "Enough," he said, still calm but carrying the kind of authority that stilled every voice in the hall. "Dolores, I will speak with Mr. Dreyse privately if necessary. For now, I suggest we trust the situation is contained."
Umbridge pressed her lips together, trembling with the effort not to shout. Finally, she stood. "I'll be reporting this to the Minister. Personally."
"Of course," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "do send him my regards."
She turned in a whirl of pink fabric and tottered from the dais, her heels clicking furiously across the stone floor.
When the last echo of her footsteps faded, McGonagall exhaled through her nose.
"If she tightens that bow at her neck any further, it might save us all the trouble."
A snort from Professor Flitwick was quickly disguised as a cough.
"Minerva," Dumbledore murmured, though even he was hiding a faint smile. "Decorum, please."
"Decorum," she muttered, folding her hands. "That woman wouldn't recognize decorum if it dressed itself in pink and called her ma'am."
At the tables below, students were beginning to stir again, plates vanishing from the long tables as breakfast drew to a reluctant close. Dumbledore rose and gave a small wave of his hand for quiet.
"Thank you all," he said, his voice echoing gently through the hall. "You are dismissed to prepare for your lessons. Except," he added, raising one long finger, "fifth years. Please remain seated."
A ripple of murmurs followed—surprised, confused—but the younger students began filing out, the noise of benches scraping and footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The chatter grew louder near the doors before fading down the corridors.
Soon, only the fifth years remained, scattered between their House tables. They looked uneasily toward the staff table, where the four Heads of House had gathered in a tight semicircle.
Dumbledore leaned toward McGonagall, murmured something inaudible, and excused himself quietly. His robes trailed like blue smoke as he left the hall through the side doors.
The remaining professors stepped forward. McGonagall stood at the center, posture impeccable, expression the perfect mixture of sternness and care. Snape loomed to her right, silent and severe; Professor Sprout and Flitwick flanked her left, both looking faintly sympathetic.
McGonagall's voice carried effortlessly through the hall.
"As the Headmaster mentioned, fifth years are to remain. We will now speak on matters of your O.W.L.s."
A collective groan rose from the students. She ignored it.
"This year will be the most demanding of your education thus far. Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels determine not only your future N.E.W.T. classes but your eligibility for most careers in the wizarding world."
She paused, letting the words sink in like a cold draft.
"That means," she continued crisply, "you will be expected to complete all coursework on time, maintain punctuality, and demonstrate maturity both in and out of the classroom."
Flitwick stepped forward, his high voice warm and brisk.
"Precision and focus will be key! Remember, charms are as much about control as imagination. Think clearly, cast cleanly, and never underestimate the basics."
Professor Sprout nodded eagerly.
"And Herbology requires patience, dears! Plants—and people—grow best when tended with care, not panic. You'll all be balancing a great deal this year, so take heart and don't lose your heads."
Snape's voice sliced through the gentleness like a whip.
"If you do lose your heads, I'll be more than happy to ensure you find them… preferably in detention."
A ripple of uneasy laughter broke out. Snape's expression didn't change.
"You are being watched," he went on softly, gaze sweeping the room. "Not only by your professors, but by forces outside this castle that care very deeply how you behave. Take that as both a warning and an opportunity. Excel, and you'll be left alone. Fail, and you'll learn what scrutiny feels like."
Several students shifted in their seats.
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Thank you, Severus. In summary, your O.W.L.s begin in June. You will have additional homework, increased reading assignments, and no tolerance for… extracurricular disruptions. Is that clear?"
A half-hearted chorus of "Yes, Professor" echoed through the hall.
"Good. Breakfast is concluded. Off you go, then. Classes will be starting soon."
Benches scraped, robes rustled, and conversation swelled again as the fifth years rose to leave.
At the staff table, McGonagall turned to Snape, her tone quieter now.
"We'll have to watch him closely. Alden Dreyse."
Snape's expression didn't change. "I already am."
McGonagall's eyes flicked toward the doors where Alden had vanished earlier. "He's a storm waiting to happen."
Snape's reply was barely a whisper.
"Then we'd best pray the walls hold."
The candles above them guttered briefly, and the scent of burnt wax lingered long after the last student left the hall.