Alden barely made it three steps into the corridor before the noise swallowed him.
The air outside the Great Hall was thick with it—voices layered over one another, shoes scuffing stone, the restless energy of students who had been told to wait and were very bad at it. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else hissed for quiet. The doors behind him loomed, closed now, heavy with whatever was being rearranged on the other side.
He exhaled once.
Then Daphne Greengrass was there.
She didn't say his name. She didn't ask if he was all right. She reached out and caught the sleeve of his robe instead, fingers curling tight, grounding, as if she were afraid he might drift off if she didn't anchor him in place. Her eyes scanned him—wrists, collar, face—sharp and furious and painfully restrained.
"They hurt you," she said finally, voice low and precise. Not a question.
Alden shrugged lightly. "They tried."
Theo Nott appeared at her shoulder, expression drawn into something tight and analytical. He didn't look angry—not yet. He looked like someone counting costs.
"How bad?" Theo asked.
Alden tilted his head, considering. "Unpleasant," he said. "I've had worse."
Theo's jaw clenched. "That's not an answer."
Before Alden could respond, Draco Malfoy shoved his way through the small cluster that had already begun to form around them.
"What in Salazar's name was that?" Draco demanded, voice pitched just a bit too high. His face was pale beneath the indignation, eyes bright with something dangerously close to panic. "They can't do that. They can't just—Merlin, they shocked you. I saw the blood—"
Pansy Parkinson cut in sharply, no attempt at lowering her voice. "They electrocuted him for talking back. In Hogwarts. In front of everyone."
Several nearby students glanced over, whispers spiking again before Theo shot them a look that sent them scattering.
"That woman is unhinged," Pansy went on, arms crossed, expression murderous. "Utterly deranged. I don't care what title she hides behind."
Tracey Davis hadn't spoken yet. She stood a half-step back, eyes fixed on Alden with unsettling focus, taking in the way he held himself, the faint tension at his shoulders, the careful neutrality of his expression.
"They wanted you to react," she said quietly.
Alden met her gaze. "Yes."
"And you didn't."
"No."
That, more than anything else, seemed to settle something in her.
Crabbe and Goyle loomed just behind the group, unusually alert, eyes flicking toward the Great Hall doors and back again. Neither said a word. They didn't need to.
Daphne finally released Alden's sleeve, though she stayed close. "That duel," she said. "That was reckless."
Alden smiled faintly. "Yes."
Draco stared at him. "You don't usually admit that."
"I don't usually have to," Alden replied.
Theo crossed his arms. "You challenged three Ministry officials to a duel. Publicly."
"Yes."
"Sequentially."
"Yes."
Theo shook his head once, incredulous. "That was stupid."
Alden didn't argue. He leaned back against the stone wall, letting the cool seep through his robes. For just a moment—just with them—he allowed the tension to show.
"It was the only way," he said. "If I hadn't forced them into something concrete, they'd have dragged this out for weeks. Months. Twisted every word until I was either expelled or quietly disappeared."
Daphne's eyes darkened. "You shouldn't have had to do that."
"No," Alden agreed. "But I did."
There was a pause.
Draco hesitated, then said awkwardly, "We knew you were strong. I mean—we knew." He gestured vaguely. "But those spells they showed… that wasn't just advanced magic."
Theo nodded slowly. "That was war."
Alden looked away.
Pansy scoffed. "They weren't dark," she said flatly. "They were impressive."
"They were terrifying," Draco corrected, then flushed. "I don't mean—you're not—"
Tracey interrupted gently. "You didn't scare us."
Alden looked back at her.
"You scared them," she went on, nodding toward the doors. "There's a difference."
Something in his expression softened then—not relief, exactly, but release. The tight coil he'd been holding since the interrogation eased, just a fraction.
"Good," he said quietly.
The noise in the corridor shifted again—footsteps organizing, voices lowering, anticipation sharpening. Somewhere nearby, a prefect was trying and failing to enforce order.
Alden straightened.
"We'll talk later," he said. "After."
Daphne didn't argue. She stepped closer instead, shoulder brushing his.
"After," she echoed.
Behind them, the Great Hall doors creaked faintly as wards settled into place.
Five minutes were almost up.
The noise in the corridor shifted.
It wasn't loud—not yet—but it changed texture, excitement tightening into something sharper, more focused. Conversations dropped in pitch. Shoes scuffed as people straightened. A prefect barked an order and, for once, was obeyed.
Then Professor McGonagall's voice carried through the doors.
"Students will re-enter the Great Hall now," she announced crisply. "In an orderly fashion. No running. No pushing. Everyone will have a clear view, so there will be no need to rush."
A pause—measured, deliberate.
"Any student who ignores these instructions will be removed."
That settled it.
The doors began to open.
As the first seam of the Great Hall appeared, light spilling out across the stone floor, Alden felt the weight return. Not the crushing pressure of accusation or pain—but awareness. Presence. Hundreds of eyes are about to settle on him again.
This time, he didn't face it alone.
Theo leaned in slightly, voice low. "Just so we're clear," he murmured, "you're not… You know. Killing any Ministry officials today."
The word killing carried farther than Theo intended.
Several nearby students snapped their heads around. A Ravenclaw dropped her parchment. Someone snorted. Someone else went very still.
Tracey reacted instantly.
She reached out and smacked Theo sharply on the shoulder.
"Do not say things like that," she hissed. "Ever. What is wrong with you?"
Theo winced, rubbing his arm. "I was asking a question."
"You were asking it loudly."
He grimaced. "Sorry."
Alden glanced at them, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
"It's fine," he said. "No one's dying."
Theo blinked. "That's… reassuring."
"There are rules," Alden went on calmly. "Wards. Oversight. No permanent injury." He paused, then added, dryly, "And I'm not interested in Azkaban."
That earned a few startled looks—and a nervous laugh from somewhere behind them.
Draco leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for Alden.
"So," he said, eyes flicking toward the widening doors, "does that mean you might lose?"
Alden didn't answer immediately.
The doors opened fully now, revealing the transformed Great Hall beyond—vast, widened, humming faintly with layered wards. Professors stood along the perimeter. The Ministry delegation waited across the open floor.
Daphne stepped to Alden's left without asking, her shoulder brushing his. Theo mirrored her on the right, posture settling into something protective and steady.
Ahead of them, Draco moved instinctively, Pansy and Tracey flanking him, forming a quiet point at the front of their group—not confrontational, just unmistakably present.
Behind Alden, Crabbe and Goyle fell in without ceremony, broad and silent, a wall at his back.
No one told them to.
They just did it.
Alden finally looked at Draco.
"No," he said simply.
Draco's brows knit. "No?"
Alden's gaze lifted, fixing on the open space at the heart of the Hall, where the duel would take place.
"I'll win."
And with that, he stepped forward—into the light, into the silence, into the center of a room that had finally stopped pretending it wasn't watching.
The doors opened fully.
The transformed Great Hall spread out before them—wider than memory allowed, the stone floor drawn taut and smooth as if the castle itself had inhaled and decided to hold the breath. Wards whispered underfoot, a low, living hum that brushed the skin. Professors lined the edges. The Ministry waited across the open space, neat and tense.
And then Slytherin moved.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. There was no cheer, no shout, no raised wand. It happened the way a tide happens—quietly, inevitably. Students in black and green shifted on the benches. A shoulder turned. A bag slid aside. A foot withdrew from the aisle. Conversations died in mid-syllable.
Space opened.
A corridor formed through the center of the Hall.
Recognized.
Alden felt it before he saw it. The subtle clearing ahead of him, the absence of resistance. He walked forward, and the path held, smooth and unbroken, flanked by the familiar dark sheen of Slytherin robes. Faces turned—not all smiling, not all kind—but attentive, appraising, intent.
"He's going to ruin them," someone murmured, barely louder than breath.
"About time," another whispered back.
A third voice, closer, carried a note of delighted spite. "I'm writing home after this. Father's been waiting for an excuse to get that ridiculous authority disbanded. Imagine losing to a fifth year."
Alden did not react. He didn't need to. The words weren't for him, not really. They were for the moment.
Daphne kept pace at his left, eyes forward, jaw set. The o at his rig, ht had gone quiet, his earlier tension channeling into focus. Ahead, Draco's posture had changed—less swagger, more presence—Pansy and Tracey flanking him like blades sheathed but ready. Behind Alden, Crabbe and Goyle moved as one, broad backs filling the space, a silent certainty at his rear.
Other houses noticed.
Ravenclaws leaned in, curiosity sharpening into analysis, eyes tracking the way the aisle formed without instruction. Gryffindors watched with mixed expressions—some skeptical, some unsettled, a few outright scowling—but even they did not step into the path. Hufflepuffs murmured, uncertain but respectful.
No one blocked the way.
Alden walked with his head level, gaze steady, expression composed. He was not triumphant. He was not defiant. He was present—wholly, undeniably present.
From the edge of the Hall, Snape observed.
He did not smile. He did not nod. He did not move at all.
But his eyes traced the line of black and green, the subtle cohesion, the instinctive recognition of one of their own being pressed unfairly—and answering not with bluster, but with resolve. Not loyalty shouted from rooftops, but alignment earned.
Ambition without cruelty. Cunning without panic. Pride tempered by restraint.
Slytherin, at its best.
Alden reached the center of the expanded floor and stopped. The path behind him remained open for a heartbeat longer—then closed, benches easing back into place as if nothing had ever shifted at all.
Across the open space, the Ministry stood waiting.
Behind him, the sea of green and black settled.
And in the quiet that followed, it was impossible to miss the truth of it: whatever else this duel would prove, Alden Dreyse did not stand alone.
The Hall settled.
It wasn't silence exactly—there were still breaths, the faint rustle of robes, the low hum of wards beneath the stone—but it was ordered now, deliberate. Students stood arranged along the widened floor in careful tiers: first years clustered near the front, eyes wide; older students rising behind them in steady ranks, every face angled toward the open space at the center.
No one struggled for position.
Everyone could see.
Alden stood alone on the far side of the floor, opposite the Ministry delegation. The three inquisitors had taken their places together, aligned shoulder to shoulder beneath the raised platform that marked their starting ground—an unspoken attempt at parity through elevation.
It didn't help.
Director Selwyn stood in the middle, tall and composed, hands folded neatly behind his back. To his right, Inquisitor Vane bristled with barely contained energy, fingers flexing near her wand, jaw set as if she were preparing for impact rather than combat. To Selwyn's left, Acolyte Thorne stood quieter than the others, posture straight, wand lowered, eyes fixed on Alden with an intensity that was not hostility—but reckoning.
Dolores Umbridge hovered just behind them, pink and rigid, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked painful.
Dumbledore stepped forward into the space between them.
The murmurs stilled completely.
"Thank you," he said mildly, though there was nothing casual about the way his gaze swept the room. "You will note that the Hall has been warded for visibility and safety. No student will be harmed by stray magic. No duel will proceed beyond the agreed limits."
His eyes flicked briefly—very briefly—toward the Ministry officials.
"And no one," he added, "will forget what they see here today."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Dumbledore turned then, facing Alden.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said, voice carrying easily, "you requested that the duels be conducted sequentially."
"Yes, Headmaster."
"And that the order proceed from weakest to strongest."
Vane stiffened.
Selwyn did not.
Dumbledore inclined his head once. "So be it."
He raised his wand—not in threat, but in declaration.
"The first duel," Dumbledore announced, "will be between Alden Dreyse… and Senior Field Inquisitor Vane."
The name struck like a flint on stone.
Vane took a sharp breath, eyes flashing. She stepped forward at once, boots striking the platform hard, shoulders squared as if force alone might make the moment hers. Her wand was already in hand, grip white-knuckled, expression fierce and brittle all at once.
Across the floor, Alden did not react.
No shift in posture. No tightening of the jaw. He simply inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the decision as one might acknowledge the opening move in a game already understood.
From the Slytherin benches, a murmur rippled—low, eager, contained.
"That's the loud one," someone whispered.
"Five minutes," another replied with quiet confidence.
Snape watched from the perimeter, arms folded, eyes narrowed—not on Vane, but on Alden. On the way, he stood. On the way,y he waited.
Selwyn glanced sideways at Vane, his expression unreadable. Thorne did not look away from Alden at all.
Dumbledore stepped back, clearing the space.
"Wands ready," he said calmly.
Vane raised hers at once.
Alden followed—smooth, unhurried, wand coming up as though answering a thought rather than a command.
The wards brightened, barely visible, settling into their final configuration.
Hundreds of students leaned forward in unison.
And somewhere beneath the stone, Hogwarts itself seemed to watch—ancient, attentive, and very curious to see what happened when authority met understanding for the first time without a shield.