The Hall took a breath.
It wasn't obvious—no sound marked it—but the pressure shifted, the way a room does when the shape of what's happening changes. Thorne stepped back first, wandless, movements careful, as though afraid to break something invisible. He did not look at the students. He did not look at Umbridge. He looked once—only once—at Alden, then turned away.
A mediwitch guided him off the floor. He let himself be led.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Selwyn stepped forward.
He did not hurry. He did not straighten his robes or adjust his cuffs. He walked with the unremarkable pace of a man accustomed to rooms making space for him, though now the space opened without enthusiasm, without awe. Just expectation.
The murmurs died as he reached the opposite end of the dueling floor.
He stopped.
He did not raise his wand.
Instead, he looked at Alden.
Not the way Vane had—like an enemy. Not the way Thorne had—like a problem that refused to resolve cleanly. Selwyn's gaze was steady, evaluative, and unsettlingly calm, as though Alden were a document finally worth reading properly.
Alden felt it.
Not fear. Not anger.
Attention.
Selwyn's eyes moved over him with precision: the way he stood, weight balanced but relaxed; the way his wand rested loosely at his side; the faint discoloration across his knuckles, already darkening. Nothing in Selwyn's expression shifted, but something in the Hall did.
The students sensed it immediately.
This was different.
No one cheered. No one whispered. Even the Weasley twins fell silent, their earlier triumph forgotten as they leaned forward, expressions sharp with interest. Ravenclaws stopped scribbling. Gryffindors watched warily. Slytherin, as a whole, went still.
Selwyn clasped his hands behind his back.
"You fight efficiently," he said at last.
His voice carried without effort. It wasn't loud, but it reached every corner of the Hall.
Alden did not reply.
"That was not a compliment," Selwyn added, mildly.
Dumbledore shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, eyes flicking between the two of them, but he did not intervene.
Selwyn continued to study Alden for another long moment, as though weighing something unseen.
"You asked a question," he said finally. "Earlier."
The words landed softly—and hit hard.
A ripple ran through the crowd. Alden's posture did not change, but his attention sharpened, internal and immediate.
Selwyn met his eyes.
"I did not answer it then," he said. "Not because I could not."
He paused.
"But because I wanted to see what kind of boy would be standing here when I did."
The silence that followed was total.
Selwyn drew his wand then—not raising it, merely holding it loosely at his side, mirroring Alden's stance in a way that felt deliberate.
"This," he said, gesturing once to the warded floor between them, "will tell me the rest."
Across the Hall, Umbridge's mouth tightened, her eyes darting between Selwyn and Alden as though she sensed the ground slipping beneath her.
Alden lifted his wand at last.
Not in challenge.
Not in defiance.
In acknowledgement.
And for the first time since the duel began, the Great Hall understood something crucial:
This was no longer about proving who was stronger.
It was about who would still be standing when the truth was finally spoken.
Dumbledore opened his mouth.
Selwyn spoke first.
"Your spells," he said calmly, "were not cast against Harry Potter."
The words fell into the Hall like a dropped blade.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then the stillness deepened—as though the air itself had drawn taut, stretched thin by the weight of what had just been said. A dozen half-formed whispers died on people's lips. Somewhere in the lower rows, a first-year intake of breath sounded far too loud.
Harry felt it like a blow to the chest.
Across the Hall, Alden did not react.
He stood exactly as he had before—wand lowered, posture composed—but something in his eyes sharpened, focus narrowing until Selwyn was the only thing that existed in the room.
Selwyn did not look at Harry.
He didn't need to.
"The Ministry," he went on, his voice level and unhurried, "has never believed that a fourth-year student—however reckless—could warrant the use of that level of magic."
A murmur rippled, quickly smothered.
"We knew," Selwyn continued, "that Mr. Potter's academic record, magical output, and demonstrated control made such an explanation… insufficient."
Ron's mouth fell open.
Hermione's fingers tightened convulsively around her sleeve.
"We also knew," Selwyn said, eyes fixed on Alden now, "that the escalation visible in your wand history was real."
He paused—not for effect, but as though selecting the exact phrasing he wished to commit to memory.
"You were not exaggerating," he said. "Nor were you fabricating."
The Hall felt unsteady.
Professor McGonagall's lips parted slightly before she caught herself. Flitwick had gone very still, eyes wide behind his spectacles. Even Snape's expression shifted—just a fraction—as though a long-suspected truth had finally been spoken aloud.
"This is not," Selwyn said calmly, "a concession."
His gaze did not waver.
"It is an acknowledgment of scale."
Alden's fingers flexed once around his wand.
Selwyn inclined his head the barest degree, the gesture precise and controlled.
"And scale," he added, "is precisely where this becomes dangerous."
The silence that followed was no longer shocked.
It was expectant.
Because everyone in the Great Hall understood now: Selwyn had not answered Alden's question to absolve him.
He had answered it to corner him.
Selwyn did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
"If you will indulge me, Mr. Dreyse," he said, almost conversationally, "I would like to ask you something in return."
Alden said nothing.
Selwyn took that for permission.
"Do you truly believe," he asked quietly, "that the Ministry is unreasonable for investigating you?"
A stir ran through the Hall—subtle, uncertain. This was not an accusation. It was framed as a question, and that made it far more dangerous.
"You have," Selwyn continued, turning slightly so that his words carried to the tiers of students as well as to Alden, "defeated two trained Ministry officials in open combat."
He gestured once, precise and restrained, toward the spot where Vane had fallen.
"One of them," he went on, "was incapacitated without magic."
A ripple of reaction followed—gasps, murmurs, a few startled laughs that died almost immediately.
"And you did so," Selwyn added, "in front of the entire school."
His gaze returned to Alden.
"You are fifteen years old."
The words were simple. They landed like a weight.
Selwyn did not rush the moment. He allowed it to settle, to work its way through the room.
"I am not disputing your intelligence," he said. "Nor your control. Nor your… creativity."
A flicker passed through his eyes at the last word.
"But I am disputing your conclusion."
Alden's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"You mock the Ministry," Selwyn said evenly, "for oversight."
His tone was calm, measured, and reasonable enough that it unsettled even those who had been cheering moments before.
"And yet," he continued, "you stand here having just proven—spectacularly—why oversight exists."
A pause.
Not dramatic.
Deliberate.
"You speak of being targeted," Selwyn went on. "Of being unfairly scrutinized. Of being made a spectacle."
He lifted his chin slightly, indicating the Hall, the wards, the watching students.
"And what, precisely, do you believe this is?"
The question echoed.
Somewhere in the stands, a Ravenclaw frowned. A Hufflepuff shifted uneasily. Even a few Slytherins exchanged glances—not disloyal, but thoughtful.
"You have demonstrated power," Selwyn said, voice still level, "that exceeds not only your peers, but many adults."
He looked at Alden steadily.
"Do you truly believe it is hypocritical for a governing body to take notice of that?"
Alden's fingers tightened around his wand.
Selwyn did not press him—yet.
"I will grant you this," he said quietly. "The Ministry has been clumsy. Heavy-handed. Politically motivated."
Umbridge bristled, but Selwyn did not look at her.
"But do not mistake incompetence," he continued, "for malice."
His eyes sharpened.
"And do not mistake scrutiny for persecution."
The Hall was no longer wholly on Alden's side.
Not against him.
But no longer certain.
Selwyn let the silence stretch, then spoke again, softer now.
"You ask why the Ministry watches you," he said. "You ask why we intervene."
His gaze flicked once—briefly—to the unconscious Vane being carried from the floor, then back to Alden.
"This," he said simply, "is why."
Selwyn did not look away from Alden as the murmurs settled.
"You are correct about one thing," he said quietly. "The Lineage Integrity Authority is investigating you."
Alden's expression did not change.
"But," Selwyn continued, "it is also investigating your family."
That drew a sharper reaction.
A ripple ran through the Hall—confusion first, then something closer to unease. Selwyn allowed it, his voice steady as stone.
"Until a few months ago," he went on, "there was no cause to do so. Your parentsaree dead. Their manor was destroyed. Their records sealed, archived, and—until recently—irrelevant."
He lifted his wand and, with a small, precise motion,n conjured a thin sheaf of parchment into the air between them. It did not flutter. It hovered, perfectly aligned, pages turning of their own accord.
"Then you cast magic," Selwyn said, "that no fourth-year should know."
The parchment turned.
"Magic attributed to Gellert Grindelwald."
Another turn.
"Magic not catalogued anywhere else."
Another.
"Magic refined. Iterated. Personalized."
His eyes flicked, briefly, to the audience.
"Some of it," Selwyn said, "your own."
The parchment vanished.
"And some of it," he added calmly, "your parents'."
The Hall went very quiet.
"You see," Selwyn said, "Harry Potter's account of the graveyard was… illuminating."
Harry stiffened.
"He described not only power," Selwyn continued, "but methodology. Spell architecture. Intent layered over effect."
Selwyn's gaze sharpened.
"That warranted investigation."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Alden now, really studying him.
"And that," he said, "is when we discovered the records."
Alden did not react.
Nflinch. No tightening of the jaw. No. No flicker of surprise.
Selwyn watched for it—and did not find it.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"You already knew," Selwyn said aloud.
The words carried.
A hush fell so complete it felt fragile.
"You knew what they were," Selwyn went on. "Didn't you?"
Alden met his gaze evenly.
Selwyn's smile sharpened—not in triumph, but in confirmation.
"I thought so."
He turned then, addressing the Hall.
"The Dreyse family," Selwyn said, "were not aligned cleanly with either side of the war."
A stir of confusion rippled through the students.
"They were not Death Eaters," he continued. "Nor were they Ministry loyalists."
He paused.
"They were researchers."
The word landed badly.
"During the height of the conflict," Selwyn said, "the Dreyse family conducted magical experimentation on captured subjects."
Gasps broke free.
"Volunteers?" someone whispered, hopeful.
"No," Selwyn said flatly.
The word cut.
"People went missing," he continued. "Dozens. Possibly more. They were taken from both sides of the conflict—suspected collaborators, low-ranking operatives, sometimes simply those in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His voice did not waver.
"Some were returned months later. Some years."
The Hall felt colder.
"When they were found," Selwyn said, "they were changed."
A murmur swelled, sickened, andwas angry.
"Physically altered. Magically unstable. Minds fractured. Bodies surviving spells they should not have endured."
Alden stood motionless.
"Some," Selwyn added, "were unrecognizable."
A sharp intake of breath came from the Ravenclaw benches. A Hufflepuff girl covered her mouth with both hands. Somewhere in the Hall, someone whispered a name—then another.
McGonagall had gone rigid, her hands gripping the edge of the staff table.
Flitwick's face had drained of colour; he stared at the stone floor as though it might give way beneath him.
Snape's eyes had darkened entirely.
"Your parents," Selwyn said, "believed that magic was neither good nor evil."
His gaze flicked back to Alden.
"That understanding," he went on, "did not come without a cost."
Whispers spread now—angry, frightened, accusatory.
"My uncle vanished during the war," a student hissed."They said it was Death Eaters—""They never found my aunt properly—""Altered—did you hear that—"
Some students looked at Alden differently now.
Not with curiosity.
With suspicion.
With anger.
With something close to hatred.
Alden felt it like a pressure wave, eyes burning into him, weighing him down.
Selwyn let it happen.
"Your family," Selwyn said evenly, "pushed magic past ethical limits in pursuit of understanding."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And now," he said softly, "you wield the fruits of that labour."
He looked directly at Alden.
"Tell me, Mr. Dreyse," Selwyn asked, voice low and precise, "did you believe that history would simply… stay buried?"
Alden did not look away.
The Hall blurred.
Not all at once—there was no dramatic shift, no spell—but something in Alden's focus slipped sideways, the sound of Selwyn's voice dulling at the edges as memory rose, unbidden and sharp.
He was nine again.
The manor was quieter then. Too quiet. Even the walls seemed to listen.
Alden sat on the edge of the long rug in the west sitting room, legs tucked beneath him, one of his father's old journals open in his lap. The script was neat and precise, lines of theory marching across the page with ruthless clarity. He understood most of it now. More than most children ever would.
But understanding wasn't the same as knowing.
"Crix?" he asked softly.
The house-elf appeared at once, with a faint pop, his long ears twitching. He wore the old Dreyse livery still, threadbare but spotless, and his eyes—large and dark—fixed immediately on Alden.
"Yes, young Master Alden?"
Alden hesitated. His fingers tightened on the journal's spine.
"What… what sort of people were my parents?"
Crix did not answer immediately.
He clasped his hands together, long fingers knotting and unknotting as though the question itself weighed something loose inside him.
"They were researchers," Crix said at last. "Very great ones."
Alden frowned. "Like Master Mathius?"
"Yes," Crix said, nodding quickly. "Very much like Master Mathius. Your parents believed as he did—that magic itself is not wicked or kind. That it only becomes such when wielded."
Alden glanced down at the journal. "These spells," he said quietly. "Some of them… they aren't like school magic."
"No," Crix agreed.
"They're from before I was born," Alden went on. "From the war."
Crix swallowed.
"During the war," he said carefully, "your parents sought to test Master Mathius's theories. To understand where magic bends. Where it breaks. Where good becomes harm, and harm becomes necessity."
Alden's voice was very small when he asked, "How did they test it?"
Crix looked away.
"There were experiments," he said. "On magic. On spells. On what the body and mind can endure."
Alden's breath caught. "On people?"
Crix closed his eyes.
"Yes, young master."
The words sat heavily between them.
Alden stared at the fire for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice trembled despite his effort to steady it.
"Were they… bad people?"
Crix's head snapped up at once.
"No," he said fiercely. "Never that. They loved you more than anything in this world. They did not abandon you because you were lacking. They would have burned the stars themselves to keep you safe."
"Then why didn't anyone help them?" Alden whispered.
Crix's shoulders sagged.
"Because they were misunderstood," he said softly. "And because fear makes cowards of many who call themselves good."
Alden blinked hard. "So they weren't bad."
"No," Crix said, moving closer, lowering himself so his eyes were level with Alden's. "They were not bad. They believed knowledge could prevent suffering. That understanding could end wars before they began."
He reached out, resting a hand over Alden's small one.
"And they loved you," Crix said again. "Always."
The memory fractured there, the warmth of the fire replaced by the cold stone of the Great Hall.
Alden stood once more beneath the wards, Selwyn's words still echoing, the weight of hundreds of gazes pressing down on him.
Across the Hall, Harry Potter felt as though the floor had dropped away beneath his feet.
He remembered the graveyard.
The pale figures rising from the earth. The way they'd looked nothing like the monsters he'd imagined—no snarling faces, no cruelty etched into them. Just grief. Love. Fear.
The resemblance to Alden had been immediate and startling: the same silver-white hair, the same stillness that made silence feel heavier than speech.
"Harry Potter," the woman had said, her voice soft but unyielding. "You must take him home."
Harry had stumbled forward, shaking. "I—he's hurt, I don't—"
"Please," she had said, and it hadn't sounded like desperation. It had sounded like love distilled into command. "He will not ask for help. He will try to crawl, and bleed, and die before he burdens another. But he has carried others far too long."
The man beside her—Alden's father—had folded his spectral hands behind his back, the motion so achingly familiar that Harry's breath had caught.
"He stayed for you," the man had said simply. "Even when you told him to run. That is who he is."
Harry remembered looking down at Alden then—bloodied, broken, still breathing because he'd chosen to protect someone else.
"Tell him," the woman had whispered, kneeling, her ghostly hand hovering near her son's cheek, "that we are proud of him. That his strength is not in his power, but in his heart—though he'll never believe it."
Harry swallowed hard in the present, chest aching.
Those weren't the faces of monsters.
And as he looked at Alden now—standing alone beneath the weight of accusations, eyes steady despite the storm breaking around him—Harry knew something with sudden, furious clarity.
Whatever Alden's parents had done…
Whatever sins lie buried in old records and sealed files…
They were not Alden's.
And no one—no Ministry, no authority, no fearful world—had the right to punish him for loving them, or for surviving them, or for daring to be more than the sum of their mistakes.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides.
Because if the world couldn't see that difference—
Then maybe Alden had been right all along.
The weight came all at once.
It wasn't magical—no pressure spell, no tightening ward—but it pressed just as hard. Alden felt it in the way the Hall no longer breathed with him, in the way the air seemed to thicken around his shoulders. Whispers moved like insects along the stone, skittering, multiplying.
Experimenters.Missing people.Just like Grindelwald. Of course, he knew.
He stood where he was, wand still in hand, but the certainty that had carried him through the first two duels faltered. Not shattered—Alden did not shatter—but bent, strained under the sudden, collective gaze of hundreds of people who had been cheering for him moments ago.
Some of them weren't cheering now.
Some were staring as though trying to reconcile two images that no longer fit together.
Selwyn watched him closely.
Not with satisfaction.With interest.
"You see?" Selwyn said quietly, and the softness of his tone made the words cut deeper. "This is the difficulty with rhetoric."
Alden's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Selwyn tilted his head, just slightly. "No retort?" he asked. "You were quite eloquent earlier."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter passed through the Hall and died almost immediately.
"You spoke at length about cowardice," Selwyn went on. "About denial. About a Ministry too afraid to confront truth."
He took a single step forward—not into Alden's space, but closer, enough that the distance between them felt intentional.
"You called the Minister weak," Selwyn said. "You called yourself lonely. Misunderstood. Elevated above a society too small to grasp your view of magic."
Alden's grip tightened on his wand. His knuckles, already bruised, ached.
"And yet," Selwyn continued, "now that the truth becomes… inconvenient…"
He let the sentence trail off.
Alden swallowed.
The whispers grew louder, less cautious now.
Monsters.Raised by monsters. Of course, he thinks he's above us.
Selwyn did not silence them.
He didn't need to.
"You ask why the Ministry watches you," Selwyn said. "Why does it intervene. Why does it create bodies like the L.I.A."
He met Alden's eyes again.
"What have you done," Selwyn asked quietly, "to change the world you condemn?"
Alden's breath caught.
Selwyn didn't wait for an answer.
"Rita Skeeter," he said calmly, and the name rippled through the Hall like a dropped stone in water.
Harry stiffened.
"She interviewed you after the first task," Selwyn continued. "She pursued your story aggressively. She sought proximity."
He paused.
"She has not been seen since."
A hush fell—uneasy, electric.
"Nobody," Selwyn said. "No evidence. No proof of wrongdoing."
His gaze never left Alden's face.
"Just absence."
Alden shook his head once, a reflexive motion, but Selwyn was already speaking again.
"Whispers follow you," Selwyn went on. "Not because of what the Ministry says—but because of what people observe."
He gestured vaguely to the Hall.
"You appear wherever disruption follows. Authority bends. Certainty erodes. Fear grows—not from lies, Mr. Dreyse, but from proximity."
His voice remained measured, almost gentle.
"This is not an accusation," Selwyn said. "It is an implication."
That was worse.
Alden felt it then—not guilt, not shame—but something colder. The realization that Selwyn was not trying to win the argument.
He was reframing it.
"You believe yourself persecuted," Selwyn said softly. "But persecution implies innocence."
The Hall seemed to lean inward.
"You do not ask for rules," Selwyn continued. "You reject them. You do not ask for oversight—you mock it."
Alden's throat tightened.
"And yet," Selwyn said, "when faced with the consequences of unrestrained power—when confronted with the legacy of those who believed as you do—"
He stopped.
Looked at Alden.
"You have nothing to say."
The silence that followed was different from before.
It wasn't shocked.
It wasn't furious.
It was doubtful.
And Alden Dreyse—brilliant, controlled, unflinching—stood beneath it, searching for words that had never failed him before, and finding, for the first time, that they would not come.
Alden drew breath.
"Director Selwyn, I—"
"No," Selwyn said quietly.
Not sharply. Not unkindly.
Just final.
Alden stopped.
Selwyn didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look displeased. He simply stepped sideways—just enough to shift Alden's sightline, just enough to make the Hall feel wider, emptier.
"You've spoken at length today," Selwyn continued. "Allow me the courtesy of finishing."
Alden's jaw tightened.
Selwyn's gaze swept the Hall once, slow and deliberate, before returning to him.
"You speak often of isolation," Selwyn said. "Of loneliness at the summit. Of being misunderstood by those too small, too fearful, too conventional to grasp your view of magic."
A faint, almost regretful smile touched his mouth.
"But you are not as alone as you pretend to be."
Alden's heart stuttered.
"You keep a circle," Selwyn went on. "Close. Loyal. Intelligent."
His eyes flicked—not obviously, but meaningfully—toward the cluster of Slytherins at the edge of the floor. Daphne, pale and rigid. Draco is standing too straight. Pansy with her chin lifted, expression unreadable. Tracey's arms folded tight. Theo's attention locked squarely on Selwyn, jaw set.
"They write home," Selwyn said calmly.
The words landed softly.
And split something open.
"Parents write to the Ministry more often than you might think," Selwyn continued. "Out of concern. Curiosity. Responsibility."
Alden's throat went dry.
"They speak of power," Selwyn said. "Of behavior. Of influence."
He let that sit.
"They speak of fear," he added gently.
Alden shook his head once, barely perceptible. "They wouldn't."
Selwyn's brows lifted. "Wouldn't they?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"We are aware," Selwyn said, "of who brought your bloodline to our attention."
Alden froze.
"While that individual is hardly without fault," Selwyn continued smoothly, "he is a parent."
Lucius Malfoy's name was never spoken.
It didn't need to be.
"And when a man of his standing," Selwyn said, "expresses concern about the company his son keeps—about the ideas being absorbed, the power being normalized—"
Draco inhaled sharply.
Selwyn's eyes flicked to him, then away.
"—that carries weight."
Alden felt the ground shift beneath him.
"They speak carefully," Selwyn went on. "None of them accuse you outright. That would be vulgar."
His voice softened.
"But concern," he said. "Unease. Observation."
He spread his hands, a gesture of reason.
"That is not betrayal, Mr. Dreyse. That is fear."
Alden stared at his friends.
Daphne's face was pale, lips parted as though she meant to speak—but she didn't. Pansy's eyes burned, furious, but she held her tongue. Tracey's jaw was clenched so hard it trembled. Draco looked stricken, torn between outrage and panic.
None of them said anything.
Alden's chest tightened.
Theo met his eyes.
Just Theo.
There was no doubt there. No hesitation. No shadow.
Theo, whose father Alden had nearly killed in a graveyard because he would not kneel.
Theo, who had never written home.
Selwyn watched the exchange with quiet interest.
"You see?" he said softly. "Even now, they hesitate."
Alden swallowed.
What is unknown, by both Sewlyn and Alden, is that those letters he speaks of are directly the opposite of what he describes.
Draco's letters speak of friendship for the first time in his life, of someone who listens without judging him for his name.
Pansy and Tracey write of competence, of guidance freely given, of a boy who never once asked for loyalty in return.
Daphne's letters are careful, hopeful, filled with trust—and something fragile she doesn't yet have words for.
But Alden does not know that.
He only knows the silence.
"And that," Selwyn said gently, "is the cost of standing where you stand."
Alden's fingers curled tighter around his wand.
Not in anger.
In something worse.
Uncertainty.
Selwyn stepped back then, giving Alden space that felt suddenly vast and empty.
"You believe yourself alone because the world fears you," Selwyn said. "But perhaps—"
He paused.
"—It is because the world is not as certain of you as you are of yourself."
The Hall breathed again.
But Alden did not.
Because doubt—real doubt, sharp and invasive—had found its way past every ward he knew how to raise.
And Selwyn, without casting a single spell, had struck true.
The Hall had turned on him.
Not loudly. Not all at once. It happened in pieces—whispers slithering along the benches, glances that lingered a heartbeat too long, mouths tightening where smiles had been moments before.
That family. So he knew. They always are. Just another Dark Lord in waiting.
The words didn't reach Alden as sound so much as pressure, a low, suffocating hum that pressed in from every direction. He stood at the center of it, wand loose in his hand, posture unchanged because he did not know what else to do with his body now that certainty had left him.
On the staff dais, reactions rippled.
Professor Flitwick had gone pale, his hands clasped tightly together as though in prayer. Professor McGonagall's mouth was a thin, furious line, her spine rigid with something close to outrage, but she said nothing. Snape's expression had shuttered entirely, darkness settling into his eyes as he watched Selwyn with a look that promised memory.
Dumbledore stood very still.
Too still.
He did not intervene. He did not speak. His blue eyes rested on Alden with an unreadable intensity—and that hurt more than any accusation.
Umbridge, by contrast, was radiant.
Her smile had returned, small and satisfied, her eyes gleaming as though she were witnessing the inevitable conclusion of a story she had always known the ending to. She clasped her hands together, rocking faintly on her heels.
Selwyn waited for the Hall to finish turning.
Then he spoke.
"I do not fear you because you are powerful," he said calmly.
The words cut through the noise with surgical precision.
"I fear you," Selwyn continued, "because you are certain."
Alden looked up.
Selwyn met his gaze without flinching.
"Power can be taught restraint," Selwyn said. "Ambition can be redirected. Even cruelty can be checked by consequence."
He took a step forward, boots echoing softly against the stone.
"But certainty," he went on, "unchecked certainty—"
His voice hardened, just slightly.
"—is how tyrants are born."
A hush fell, sharp and complete.
"You believe you see the world more clearly than others," Selwyn said. "That your understanding places you above rules written for smaller minds."
Alden's fingers trembled once. He forced them still.
"You speak of loneliness," Selwyn continued. "Of standing apart."
He shook his head.
"No," he said. "What you describe is not loneliness."
His eyes bored into Alden's.
"It is isolation by choice."
A murmur ran through the crowd—agreement here, outrage there. A Ravenclaw nodded slowly. A Slytherin scowled. Somewhere near the Gryffindor benches, Ron Weasley muttered something that earned him a sharp elbow from Hermione.
Selwyn drew a breath.
And then he delivered the verdict.
"If it were up to me," he said evenly, "you would already be in Azkaban."
The Hall went dead silent.
Not a breath.Not a shuffle.Not a whisper.
Professor Flitwick's eyes widened in horror. McGonagall sucked in a sharp breath before she could stop herself. Snape's head snapped up, his gaze turning lethal.
Daphne's face drained of all colour. Draco's mouth fell open. Pansy's nails bit into her palms hard enough to draw blood. Theo took an involuntary step forward before freezing, fists clenched.
Harry felt as though the floor had vanished beneath him.
Azkaban.
For a heartbeat, it was all anyone could hear.
"Not," Selwyn continued, his voice unshaken, "for who you are."
Alden barely registered the pause.
"But for what you carry," Selwyn said, "and how proudly you wield it."
The silence after that was different.
It was not a shock.
It was a division.
Some students stared at Alden with horror.
Others with grim agreement.
A few—too few—looked uncertain, caught between what they had seen and what they were being told.
Umbridge's smile widened.
Selwyn held Alden's gaze for a moment longer.
Then, finally, he raised his wand.
The gesture was unhurried. Deliberate.
A declaration.
"This," Selwyn said quietly, "is why oversight exists."
The wards hummed, responding.
And across the Great Hall, with every eye fixed on them, Alden Dreyse stood facing the man who had just condemned him—not as a criminal, not as a child, but as a danger the world had already decided it would rather cage than understand.
The duel had not yet begun.
But the verdict had already been spoken.