The silence that followed Alden's last words was not the brittle kind that shattered at the first sound, but the heavy, suffocating sort that pressed against the ears and made even breathing feel intrusive.
"I could cast every spell you've ever feared," Alden had said—and now, standing there in chains before the entire school, he let that sentence settle, deepen, and turn poisonous.
Selwyn regarded him with cool interest and still loosely in hand. "You imply, Mr. Dreyse," he said, "that the Ministry lacks understanding. That is a bold claim for a student."
Alden's smile thinned.
"No," he replied calmly. "It's an accurate one."
A ripple passed through the hall—sharp, startled murmurs from students who had expected anger, or fear, or spectacle. What they got instead was composure.
"You see," Alden went on, lifting his head fully now, silver hair slipping back from his eyes, "what fascinates me most about this entire… performance—" he let his gaze flick briefly to Umbridge, whose smile twitched, "—is that you walked in here so confident. So certain that what you saw was enough."
He shifted slightly in the chair; the chains responded with a faint hum, runes brightening for a heartbeat before dimming again.
"You saw spells," he said. "Names. Residual magic. Symbols you've been taught to fear since childhood. And you mistook recognition for understanding."
Selwyn's eyes sharpened. "Be careful, boy."
Alden looked at him—really looked at him—and something unsettling crossed his expression.
"You couldn't cast a single one of them," he said softly.
The words landed with surgical precision.
Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just stated.
"In fact," Alden continued, voice even, "if I handed you my wand and gave you a year—no, two—you still wouldn't manage more than a catastrophic misfire. Because those spells don't work the way your manuals say they do. They aren't incantations to be memorized or motions to be rehearsed. They're frameworks. Structures. Expressions of intent refined by discipline and understanding."
A low murmur rippled through the students. Even some Ravenclaws frowned, uncertain.
"The Ministry," Alden said, turning his gaze briefly to the watching crowd, "trains obedience. Compliance. Spellwork by rote. You teach witches and wizards what to think, not how to think. And so when something appears that doesn't fit neatly into your approved categories, you call it dangerous."
His eyes returned to Selwyn, then slid deliberately to Vane and Thorne.
"Not because it is," Alden added. "But because you are."
Umbridge let out a sharp, affronted laugh. "This is outrageous! You dare stand there and insult representatives of the Ministry—"
"I dare," Alden interrupted, still perfectly calm, "because you walked into a school and mistook children for enemies."
That one hurt.
Even McGonagall's fingers curled slightly against the staff table.
Selwyn's jaw tightened. "You speak as though you are our superior."
Alden considered that, genuinely thoughtful for a moment.
"No," he said at last. "I speak as someone who understands what you don't. And that terrifies you."
The chains pulsed again—brighter this time. A sharp jolt ran up Alden's arms. His breath caught; a faint sound escaped him before he could stop it. He clenched his jaw, shoulders tightening, veins rising briefly along his neck.
From the back of the hall, Daphne sucked in a breath. Theo muttered, "Merlin, stop talking."
Snape's fingers pressed harder against his temple, smirk gone now, replaced by a dark, dangerous focus.
Alden exhaled slowly, deliberately. When he looked up again, his voice was steadier than before.
"You know what's truly amusing?" he asked. "Not that you're afraid of my magic—but that you think fear makes you competent."
Selwyn took a step forward. "You will show respect."
Alden laughed once—quiet, incredulous.
"Respect?" he echoed. "You walked in here armed with artifacts you don't understand, relying on procedures you hope no one questions, enforcing decrees written by a Minister too frightened to say a name aloud."
The hall went utterly still.
"You're not investigators," Alden continued. "You're symptoms. The same sickness that's been rotting the Ministry from the inside—cowardice dressed up as authority."
Umbridge's face had gone a blotchy, furious pink. "Enough! This is insubordination of the highest—"
"You should be grateful," Alden said mildly, cutting her off without raising his voice. "If I wanted to demonstrate what true insubordination looks like, you'd already be unconscious."
A collective gasp rose, sharp and panicked.
Harry Potter stared at Alden, something like dread creeping up his spine. Ron's mouth hung open. Hermione's hands were clenched so tightly in her robes that her knuckles had gone white.
"And before you misunderstand me," Alden added, glancing briefly at the students, "that was not a threat. Merely an observation."
Selwyn stared at him now, the first real crack appearing in his composure.
"You think yourself untouchable," he said.
Alden tilted his head.
"No," he replied. "I think you walked in here believing power was loud. That authority was absolute. And that a fifteen-year-old would crumble under pressure."
His smile returned—faint, razor-edged.
"You were wrong on all three counts."
The Great Hall held its breath.
And for the first time since the L.I.A. had arrived at Hogwarts, it was not Alden Dreyse who looked exposed—but the people who had come to judge him.
For a moment after Alden's last words, no one spoke.
Not because they could not—but because every reply that came to mind sounded suddenly inadequate.
Selwyn recovered first. He always would; men like him were trained to mistake stillness for authority.
"You overestimate yourself," he said coolly. "This Ministry has faced Dark Wizards before."
Alden's gaze slid to him, almost curious.
"Has it?" he asked.
A few students snorted before they could stop themselves. Umbridge spun on them, eyes bulging.
"How dare you," she shrilled, "belittle the tireless efforts of the Ministry of Magic! The very institution that protects—"
"Protects whom?" Alden asked gently.
The question cut straight through her tirade.
She faltered, lips pursing, then snapped, "The wizarding public, of course!"
Alden nodded, as if conceding a point. Then—
"From what?"
Silence.
"You see," Alden went on, voice calm enough to be mistaken for a lecture, "if you truly believed the Dark Lord had returned, you wouldn't be here."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop.
"You'd be fortifying borders. Mobilizing Aurors. Securing magical infrastructure. Preparing evacuation protocols." He ticked each item off with quiet precision. "You wouldn't be dragging a chained student onto a stage and calling it transparency."
Selwyn's mouth tightened. "We do not accept the premise that—"
"That Voldemort has returned?" Alden finished for him.
The name did not echo. It didn't need to.
It sat there, heavy and poisonous, like something alive.
Several students gasped. Others leaned forward, eyes bright with the thrill of forbidden truth.
Harry Potter's shoulders stiffened.
"You don't accept it," Alden continued, "because accepting it would require courage. And courage is… inconvenient."
Umbridge let out a sharp, offended noise. "That is an outrageous accusation against the Minister of Magic!"
Alden turned to her then, fully.
"Is it?" he asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks very simple. Cornelius Fudge is terrified. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of losing control. Terrified that the world might be bigger and darker than his paperwork allows."
Umbridge's face flushed scarlet. "You insolent—!"
"And so," Alden pressed on, unbothered, "he sends you. Committees. Decrees. Inspectors. He invents enemies small enough to manage."
His eyes flicked meaningfully to the chains around his wrists.
"A boy," he said softly, "is easier to face than a Dark Lord."
The words struck like a curse.
Theo's breath left him in a rush. Daphne's fingers dug into the bench beside her. Even Draco Malfoy looked unsettled now, his usual sneer nowhere to be found.
Selwyn's composure cracked just enough to reveal steel beneath. "You presume much about matters beyond your station."
Alden smiled faintly.
"My station?" he echoed. "You mean the one you dragged me from this morning?"
The chains hummed again, reacting to the edge in his voice. A sharp pulse snapped through them. Alden's breath hitched—just briefly—before he mastered it. His jaw clenched; a muscle jumped in his neck.
Snape's hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
Alden straightened despite it.
"You want to talk about stations?" he asked. "Very well. Let's be precise."
He looked out over the hall now, letting his voice carry.
"If Voldemort were standing in this room," Alden said evenly, "every single one of you—" his gaze swept the inquisitors, Umbridge, then the watching students, "—would be dead before your wands cleared your robes."
A shocked cry rang out from somewhere near the Hufflepuff table.
"That," Alden added, turning back to Selwyn, "includes you."
Umbridge laughed, shrill and brittle. "Don't be absurd! The Ministry has Aurors—"
"—who would last seconds," Alden interrupted. "On a good day."
The hall erupted in whispers.
"You see the difference between us?" Alden continued. "I don't deny the threat because it frightens me. You deny it because it frightens you."
Selwyn's eyes burned now. "This is fearmongering."
"No," Alden said quietly. "This is honesty. Something the Ministry seems allergic to."
He leaned back slightly, chains clinking.
"And that," he finished, "is why you're here."
The Great Hall felt suddenly, unmistakably smaller.
Because Alden Dreyse was no longer defending himself.
He was indicting them.
And somewhere deep in the castle, the idea took root that perhaps the most dangerous thing about him was not the magic he wielded—
—but the truths he was willing to say aloud.
The artifact between Selwyn's hands pulsed faintly, as though eager to reclaim the floor.
"You have all seen the evidence," Selwyn said tightly, gesturing toward the ghostly afterimage still lingering above Alden's wand. "Pells of extraordinary violence. Magic beyond any approved curriculum. Cast repeatedly and with practiced ease."
Alden watched him for a moment, head slightly tilted.
"Yes," he agreed. "You have."
That, somehow, was worse than denial.
Selwyn frowned. "Then you admit—"
"No," Alden interrupted calmly. "I acknowledge what you've shown. There's a difference. But since we're being thorough, let's finish the thought you keep circling."
He shifted forward in the chair, chains scraping softly against the stone.
"You've paraded my wand work in front of the school," Alden said. "You've named spells half of you can't pronounce, let alone define. You've made a great deal of noise about what I cast."
His eyes lifted—sharp now, cutting.
"But not a single one of you has asked the only question that matters."
A hush fell over the hall.
"Against whom?" Alden asked.
The question landed with a dull, echoing thud.
Vane opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"You were under a Confundus Charm," Selwyn said at last, seizing on the rehearsed line. "Disoriented. Influenced. That alone explains—"
"—then let's be very clear," Alden said, voice smooth as glass. "You do not deny that Harry Potter and I were in a graveyard."
Every head in the Great Hall turned.
Harry froze.
His ears burned as the weight of hundreds of gazes settled on him at once. He hunched slightly, instinctively tugging his robes closer, wishing—absurdly—that the floor might swallow him.
Alden followed the movement, eyes gentle for half a second before turning sharp again.
"So," Alden continued, "we have two students. One of them"—he inclined his head politely toward Harry—"is widely known for courage, poor impulse control, and"—a beat—"academically speaking, some of the weakest defensive scores in this year."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter broke out. Hermione made a strangled sound. Ron went red in the ears.
Harry stared at the floor.
"And the other," Alden said evenly, "casts magic you've just called excessive. Dangerous. Unnecessary."
He paused.
"Now tell me," he said, looking directly at Selwyn, "which of us required those spells to be used against them?"
The silence that followed was brutal.
"Do you genuinely believe," Alden pressed on, "that Harry Potter—fifteen years old, exhausted, barely holding his wand steady—posed such a threat that I needed to shatter wards, bend gravity, and erase active spellfields?"
Harry's shoulders curled inward.
"That I froze pain pathways," Alden continued softly, "collapsed curse volleys, and burned through containment magic because I feared him?"
Selwyn's jaw worked.
"Or," Alden said quietly, "is it possible—just possible—that you are very deliberately avoiding the only conclusion that makes sense?"
Umbridge shrieked, "Do not put words in our mouths!"
"I'm not," Alden replied calmly. "I'm taking them out."
He leaned back, chains clinking.
"You've already said it yourselves," he went on. "You insist I was Confounded. You insist I acted irrationally. And yet you also insist the magic I used was precise, controlled, and effective."
His eyes gleamed.
"Which is it?"
The hall stirred, a low, uneasy tide of whispers.
"You can't have both," Alden said. "Either I was a raving, disoriented child flinging curses at classmates… or I was facing something that warranted that level of response."
He let the implication hang.
Harry swallowed hard.
Several students glanced between Alden and the staff table, understanding dawning—slow, reluctant, impossible to stop.
"If you truly believe," Alden finished, "that I cast those spells against Harry Potter…"
He turned fully toward Harry now, voice almost apologetic.
"…then you think very poorly of me."
A murmur swept the hall—some angry, some unsettled, some frightened.
"And if you don't," Alden said, eyes returning to Selwyn, "then your entire narrative collapses."
Selwyn's fingers tightened around the artifact.
"You are twisting facts," he snapped.
Alden smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "I'm finally asking you to look at them."
From the staff table, Snape exhaled slowly through his nose, expression unreadable.
McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin, pale line.
And at the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter sat very still, heart pounding, as the unspoken truth took root in the Great Hall—
Because if Alden Dreyse hadn't been fighting Harry…
Then he had been fighting something far worse.
And the Ministry had just reminded everyone how badly it wanted to pretend otherwise.
The silence after Alden's last words stretched thin as spun glass.
Selwyn did not answer.
Neither did Vane. Nor Thorne.
They stood there beneath the enchanted ceiling, wands at the ready, expressions carefully neutral—men trained to wait out discomfort, to let silence do the work for them. Umbridge, on the other hand, was visibly vibrating with barely contained fury.
"You are attempting to derail this inquiry," she snapped. "Your insinuations are irrelevant. The Ministry—"
Alden cut her off with a raised finger.
"No," he said calmly. "We're finally on the point."
He leaned forward in the chair, chains scraping softly against stone, and for the first time h, his voice carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
"Answer the question."
Selwyn met his gaze, jaw tight.
"Who," Alden repeated, "warranted those spells?"
A murmur swept the hall again, louder now, restless.
"Harry Potter?" Alden asked plainly.
Every head turned.
Harry flinched as though struck, shoulders hunching instinctively, eyes darting toward the staff table before dropping back to the floor. He did not speak. He could not.
Alden watched him for half a heartbeat, then looked back to the inquisitors.
"Was it him?" Alden pressed. "The boy you've just spent the last year calling delusional? The one with mediocre defensive scores and a habit of shouting first and thinking later?"
Ron half-rose from his seat, face flushed. Hermione grabbed his sleeve, hissing something urgent.
Alden didn't look at them.
"Or," he said, voice lowering, "was it someone worse?"
The words settled like ash.
Selwyn's fingers twitched around his wand.
"Careful," Vane warned. "You tread close to sedition."
Alden smiled.
"I thought so," he said softly.
The hall seemed to inhale as one.
"You won't say it," Alden continued. "You can't. Because the moment you do, this little performance collapses."
He straightened fully now, chains humming faintly as his posture changed—no longer restrained, no longer defensive.
"Because if the answer isn't Harry Potter," Alden said, "then it's the name your Ministry has spent months erasing from headlines."
Umbridge shrieked, "You will not speak his name in this hall!"
Alden laughed once, sharp and incredulous.
"Oh, I don't need to," he replied. "Everyone here already knows it."
The students were whispering openly now. Fear. Excitement. Horrified understanding.
"You see," Alden went on, "this is the part where investigators normally dconclude Where evidence points somewhere inconvenient. Where courage is required."
He looked at Selwyn, then Vane, then Thorne—one by one.
"And instead, you freeze."
He tilted his head.
"Cowards," he said mildly.
A ripple of shock passed through the hall.
"Just like last year," Alden added thoughtfully. "When the Ministry sent us a Defense professor who turned out to be anything but."
Umbridge's eyes bulged.
"Moody," Alden said, feigning consideration. Then corrected himself smoothly: "Sorry. Barty Crouch Junior."
The effect was instantaneous.
Several students gasped aloud. A Ravenclaw dropped their quill. Somewhere near the back, a first-year student began to cry.
Selwyn's composure finally cracked.
"That is enough," he snapped. "You will cease—"
"—or what?" Alden asked calmly. "You'll arrest me? On what charge? Hypotheticals? Questions you refuse to answer?"
The chains pulsed again, a warning flare of blue-white light crawling briefly along the runes. Alden's breath hitched, just for a moment—but he did not look down.
He looked up.
"This is getting us nowhere," Alden said evenly. "So let's stop pretending this is about truth."
The Great Hall was so silent now that even the torches seemed to burn more quietly.
"You called this an educational demonstration," Alden continued. "Very well."
He leaned back slightly, chains clinking as he settled into the chair—not as a prisoner, but as a host reclaiming the room.
"Let's continue it."
The words landed like a gauntlet thrown onto stone.
Every student leaned forward.
Every professor tensed.
Selwyn stared at him, expression unreadable.
Alden met his gaze, eyes glinting silver-green in the torchlight.
"Unless," he added softly, "you're afraid of what the demonstration might actually teach."
The chains hummed.
The air grew cold.
Alden let the silence linger a moment longer than necessary.
It stretched. Tightened. Became uncomfortable.
"You know," he said at last, almost conversationally, "I expected more."
Selwyn's eyes flickered. "From whom?"
"From you," Alden replied. He glanced between the three inquisitors, his gaze cool, appraising, as though examining substandard ingredients. "You arrived with titles. Director. Inquisitor. Acolyte. You announced yourselves as investigators, protectors of the realm, arbiters of truth."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"So far, all I've seen is posturing."
Umbridge sputtered. "This—this arrogance!"
"—is earned," Alden cut in mildly. "Unlike your authority."
A low, shocked sound rippled through the hall.
"You've made a grand show of how powerful you are," Alden continued. "Dragged me here in chains. Displayed artifacts. Paraded spellwork like trophies." His eyes sharpened. "And yet—"
He leaned forward slightly.
"You don't understand a single spell my wand showed you."
Selwyn stiffened. Vane's lips thinned.
"You don't know how they're structured," Alden went on. "You don't know what disciplines they draw from, what principles govern them, or why they worked at all. You only know that they frightened you."
He paused.
"And you still won't answer the question."
The hall seemed to hold its breath again.
"Were those spells cast against Harry Potter," Alden asked calmly, "or against someone worse?"
No answer.
"Still nothing," Alden murmured. "Curious, for men who claim to be investigators."
He straightened in the chair, chains chiming softly.
"You dodge. You deflect. You change the subject. You hide behind procedure and artifacts and the comfort of not having to say the truth aloud."
His gaze flicked to Umbridge, then back to Selwyn.
"And now you've pivoted to my family."
A ripple of unease passed through the Slytherin table.
"My blood," Alden said. "My name. My ancestry. As though any of that answers the question you're too afraid to ask."
His voice sharpened just a fraction.
"Who cares about my family?"
That did it.
A sharp intake of breath echoed from multiple tables.
"You're so desperate to sell the story of lineage," Alden continued, "because it's easier than admitting the reality standing right in front of you. You'd rather chase ghosts of the past than confront the present."
He lifted his chin slightly, eyes glinting.
"There is only one man in this room," Alden said, "who ever stood against my great-granduncle and lived."
The Great Hall went deathly still.
"And it isn't you," Alden finished.
All eyes slid, as one, to the staff table.
Dumbledore sat very still, hands folded, blue eyes unreadable behind his spectacles.
"The rest of you," Alden went on quietly, returning his attention to the inquisitors, "were nothing before him. And you would be nothing now."
Selwyn's voice was tight. "You presume—"
"No," Alden said. "I conclude."
He leaned back, chains creaking, and spread his bound hands slightly.
"So let's stop pretending," he said evenly. "You've made a great deal of noise about how dangerous I am. You've waved spells you don't understand and called them proof. You've painted yourselves as brave investigators standing against the next Dark Lord."
His smile turned razor-thin.
"If that's true… then prove it."
A stir ran through the hall, like wind through dry grass.
"Duel me," Alden said.
The word hit the air and stayed there.
"In front of everyone," he continued. "Professors. Students. Ghosts, if they're curious." A beat. "Educationally, of course."
Umbridge shrieked, "This is outrageous! You cannot be serious—!"
"Why not?" Alden asked calmly. "If I'm truly the threat you claim, surely you're not afraid of a controlled duel. Or does your courage end the moment you're expected to stand on your own power?"
He tilted his head.
"Unless," he added softly, "you really are afraid of the boy you've spent months calling the next Dark Lord."
The hall erupted—gasps, shouts, whispers colliding into chaos.
Selwyn did not answer.
Vane did not answer.
Thorne's face had gone pale.
Alden watched them, eyes steady, unblinking.
"You see," he said, almost kindly, "this is the problem with narratives."
He smiled.
"They tend to fall apart the moment someone asks you to step into the story."
The chains hummed faintly, reacting to the tension.
Alden's gaze did not waver.
"So," he said, voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "which is it?"
The question hung there—inescapable.
And for the first time since they had arrived at Hogwarts, the Ministry's inquisitors had nothing left to hide behind but silence.