The silence left by Selwyn's last words had not yet settled.
Dumbledore drew breath.
"Before we proceed," he began, voice calm, deliberate, already shaping safeguards—
The duel did not begin.
It erupted.
Alden moved.
There was no bow. No acknowledgment. No warning spark of courtesy. One moment, he stood opposite Selwyn, pale and rigid beneath the weight of a hundred watching eyes—and the next, his wand cut through the air with a vicious snap.
"Bombarda."
The spell did not strike Selwyn.
It struck the world beside him.
Stone exploded.
The floor at Selwyn's flank tore itself apart in a violent bloom of debris and fire. Shards of flagstone screamed upward, the blast rippling across the Hall like a physical shockwave. Smoke and dust billowed, thick and choking, swallowing sound and light alike.
Students screamed.
Several ducked instinctively. Others froze, eyes wide, mouths open, as the impact rattled the enchanted ceiling and sent echoes crashing back from every corner of the Hall.
"Shield the first years—now!" McGonagall snapped, already moving, tartan robes whipping as she flung her wand toward the lower benches.
A translucent barrier flared into existence just as fragments of stone clattered harmlessly against it.
Selwyn staggered.
Not from panic—but from force.
His boots skidded across the fractured floor as he threw up wards with practiced speed, layered shields snapping into place one after another, Ministry magic dense and disciplined. Dust rolled over him in choking waves. His robes were torn, scorched at the hem.
He had not even finished raising his wand when Alden attacked.
Forced back. Immediate. Defensive.
Around them, the Hall changed.
The Gryffindors who had been cheering minutes earlier fell silent as if someone had reached in and cut the sound from their throats. Excitement curdled into something sharp and uneasy.
Ravenclaws leaned forward, fascinated and alarmed in equal measure, eyes tracking spellwork, already dissecting trajectories and force vectors even as dread crept in.
Slytherin stopped whispering altogether.
The usual low murmur—the calculating commentary, the dry speculation—vanished. Faces went still. Backs straightened. Every eye locked onto Alden.
This was not clever.
This was not measured.
This was not an educational demonstration.
This was Alden lashing out.
Daphne felt it before she understood it. The shift. The way the air around him seemed tighter, wrong somehow, vibrating with something raw and uncontrolled. Her fingers curled into her sleeve without realizing it.
Theo's hand twitched at his side, instinctively reaching for a wand he was not allowed to draw. His jaw clenched, eyes dark, tracking Alden's movements with a soldier's focus.
Draco swallowed hard. His mouth had gone dry. This wasn't the composed duelist he'd watched dismantle Vane with clinical precision. This was something else. Something closer to fury.
"This is too much," Hermione whispered, her voice thin, horrified. "Harry—this isn't—"
Harry didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His eyes were fixed on Alden, heart hammering, the image of the graveyard flickering unbidden behind his eyes—green light, smoke, blood. He knew that look. He had seen it once before, on a night when everything had gone wrong.
Across the shattered stone, Selwyn steadied himself, shoulders squared behind his wards, eyes locked on Alden with new, sharpened focus.
The duel had barely begun.
And already, the room understood something it hadn't before:
Whatever this was becoming—
Alden Dreyse was no longer trying to prove a point.
He was trying to hurt someone.
Selwyn did not panic.
That, more than anything, unsettled the room.
He moved with economy, wand snapping through precise arcs as he rebuilt control, the only way he knew how—by narrowing the fight. Containment charms flared into being, translucent lattices locking into place between him and Alden. Binding arcs followed, pale bands of force designed not to harm, but to end duels quickly. A sharp Expelliarmus cut through the smoke, followed by a grounding ward that bit into the fractured floor and anchored itself there.
For half a second—just half—it looked as though it might work.
Alden was forced to adjust, boots sliding across broken stone as one binding brushed his sleeve. The crowd exhaled collectively, hope flickering in places it hadn't belonged a moment before.
"There," someone whispered. "He's slowing—"
Alden's wand rose.
He did not shout.
He did not embellish.
"Sectis Nox."
The spell cut the air like a blade drawn clean from a sheath.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't bright. It didn't announce itself with fire or thunder. It sliced—a green-white fracture snapping through Selwyn's foremost shield as though the enchantment had simply… decided it no longer applied.
Every professor in the Hall knew that spell.
Not by name, perhaps—but by lineage.
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the staff table.
"That's—" Flitwick breathed, half-rising. "That's the foundation—"
McGonagall's face went bloodless.
They all remembered.
A year ago.The Triwizard Tournament.The Hungarian Horntail.
The spell Alden had refined—expanded—into Sectis Nox Magna, the spell that had beheaded a fully grown dragon in front of an international audience.
And now he was using its progenitor.
On a man.
The curse struck Selwyn across the shoulder and carved down into his ribs in a precise, vicious line. There was no explosion. No dramatic flourish.
Just blood.
It splashed darkly against the stone floor, unmistakable, real. Selwyn gasped—not in pain, but in surprise—as his wards collapsed in a cascade of broken light.
A collective sound tore through the Hall.
Pomfrey cried out, "Merlin's sake—Albus!"
Umbridge clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide—not with fear, but with shocked disbelief that someone of Selwyn's standing could bleed like that. Her lips trembled, then curved, just slightly.
Selwyn staggered back, boots skidding. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the floor, the other pressed to his side as blood soaked through his immaculate robes.
For a heartbeat, the Hall held its breath.
Then Selwyn laughed.
Not loudly.
Not hysterically.
Just once.
A short, breathless sound that startled everyone who heard it.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes locking onto Alden through strands of smoke and drifting dust. Blood darkened his sleeve, slick and unmistakable.
"There," Selwyn said calmly, his voice carrying with eerie clarity through the chaos. "Do you feel it?"
Alden did not respond.
He advanced.
Another Sectis Nox tore free from his wand—then another. And another. Clean, efficient cuts that forced Selwyn to move, to twist, to throw up half-formed shields that fractured almost as soon as they appeared. Each strike opened new wounds, red lines blooming across Selwyn's arms, his side, his leg.
Students screamed now.
Some turned away. Others stared, frozen, unable to look elsewhere.
"Alden, stop!" McGonagall shouted, already moving, robes billowing as she pushed past benches. "This is enough!"
Flitwick was on his feet, wand raised. "Albus—he's escalating—"
Snape had gone very still, eyes locked on Alden with an expression that was no longer masked by sarcasm or restraint. Fury burned there—cold and sharp.
But everything was happening too fast.
Alden was relentless.
Selwyn, bleeding, staggering, looked up again—and this time, his smile was unmistakable.
"This," he said, voice strained but steady, "is the moment."
Alden's jaw was set, eyes dark, unblinking.
Selwyn continued, almost conversational despite the blood dripping from his fingertips.
"This is where they stop seeing a boy," he said softly."And start seeing a threat."
The words landed.
You could feel them land.
Some students flinched.
Others—slowly, reluctantly—nodded.
And Selwyn, kneeling in his own blood, knew with a quiet, terrible certainty that the room was beginning to turn exactly the way he wanted.
Selwyn did not stay still.
Even on one knee, even bleeding, he fought.
His wand snapped up, and spells flew—sharp, disciplined bursts of Ministry magic meant to halt, to bind, to end things before they became irreparable. Blue-white force cracked through the smoke. A constricting arc lashed toward Alden's legs. A stunner flared, fast and precise.
None of it reached him.
Alden raised his wand, and the air before him thickened, dark-glass smooth. Magic slid, bent, unraveled. A curse struck the barrier and vanished without sound. Another skidded away as if the world itself refused to let it pass.
He kept walking.
Stone crunched beneath his boots. Blood gleamed wetly on the floor between them. Alden did not hurry. He did not slow.
Selwyn fired again—harder this time, desperation beginning to fray the edges of his control.
Alden flicked his wrist.
"Expelliarmus."
Selwyn's wand tore free of his grasp and clattered across the stone, spinning uselessly away. The sound it made—wood against rock—rang louder than any spell.
A gasp tore through the Hall.
Selwyn froze, bare-handed, still kneeling in his own blood.
Alden stopped a few paces away.
Up close, the difference was stark. Selwyn looked older now. Smaller. The immaculate authority stripped away, leaving a man on his knees, robes soaked dark, chest heaving.
Alden's voice, when he spoke, was low—and carrying.
"You dragged my family through the mud," he said, every word precise. "For your own satisfaction."
Selwyn looked up at him, eyes bright, calculating even now.
"You stood there," Alden continued, "in front of everyone—students, professors, children—and told me I belonged in Azkaban."
A ripple of sound spread through the Hall. Whispers swelled, overlapping, ugly.
Monster. Too far. Dark wizard. Azkaban—
Alden didn't look away from Selwyn.
"You told them there was no Dark Lord," he went on, voice steady, dangerous. "That nothing like that exists anymore. That fear was a lie."
He gestured subtly, encompassing the wreckage, the blood, the watching school.
"And yet here you are," Alden said quietly. "On your knees. Disarmed. Pathetic."
Selwyn's mouth twitched.
"Perhaps," he said, voice hoarse—but calm. "But look around you."
Alden felt it then.
The shift.
Selwyn lifted his chin just enough to meet Alden's eyes fully.
"Now," Selwyn said softly, "you're showing them why you frighten the Ministry more than the idea of the Dark Lord ever did."
The words rippled outward like poison.
The whispers grew louder.
"He's lost it—""That's not normal—""He should be locked up—""Dark—dark—"
Someone shouted it outright.
"Monster!"
Alden heard it.
He heard all of it.
His chest rose and fell once, sharply. His knuckles were white around his wand. Magic bled off him in waves, the air vibrating with it, unstable and raw.
At the staff table, McGonagall had gone pale. Flitwick looked sick. Snape's eyes burned, jaw clenched as though holding back something violent.
Harry stood frozen, heart pounding, watching the room turn—watching people he recognized, people he didn't, recoil from the boy who had stood beside him in a graveyard and refused to run.
Selwyn, kneeling, bloodied, powerless, watched it all with something like quiet triumph.
The trap was closing.
And Alden—still fifteen, still shaking with everything he'd been forced to carry—stood at its center, wand raised, surrounded by voices calling him exactly what Selwyn had promised they would see.
Something inside Alden finally gave way.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was small—and that was what made it terrifying.
He saw it in Selwyn's eyes.
The smile wasn't wide. It wasn't triumphant. It was thin, knowing, almost gentle in its certainty. The look of a man who understood systems—who knew that even bleeding on his knees, he had already won.
Look at them, the smile said. Look at what they see now.
The noise swelled.
Too loud. Too close.
"Alden—!" Theo's voice cut through first, sharp with panic. "Stop—Alden, stop, this isn't—"
Daphne's voice followed, breaking outright. "Please—please, Alden, look at me—"
"Don't do this!" Pansy shouted, fear stripping the bite from her tone. "You're proving him right!"
Draco was yelling too—he didn't remember what he was saying, only that his throat burned and his hands were shaking, and Alden wasn't looking at any of them.
Behind them—
"No—no—Harry—he's going to—" Hermione's voice fractured into a sob she didn't finish.
Ron swore, pale and frozen. "Someone—someone stop him—"
Harry couldn't breathe.
This wasn't the graveyard. There was no fog, no darkness to hide in.
This was light.
Witnesses.
Alden stood at the center of it all, wand raised, magic bleeding off him in violent waves.
The crowd had turned.
"He's lost it—"
"That's not normal magic—"
"Dark Lord—"
"Monster!"
The word hit him like a physical blow.
Monster.
It echoed, overlapping, shouted now by voices he didn't know, voices he did. Students standing on benches. Others are shrinking back in fear. Some yelling for him to be restrained. Others are calling for Aurors. For Azkaban.
At the staff table, chaos.
"Alden, enough!" McGonagall shouted, already moving, shoving past benches, her voice raw with urgency.
"Albus!" Flitwick cried. "You must—now—!"
Snape was on his feet, robes snapping as he pushed forward, face thunderous. "Dreyse—stand down!"
Dumbledore moved too—but to Alden, it was all wrong.
Slow.
As though the world had thickened, sound stretching, motion lagging behind intention. The barrier between him and Selwyn shimmered faintly, distorting faces, warping voices into something distant and unreal.
Alden looked down at Selwyn.
Still kneeling.
Still bleeding.
Still smiling.
And in that moment, something quiet and vital slipped away inside him.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Something smaller.
Something that had once whispered don't.
The noise fell away.
Theo's voice.
Daphne's tears.
Harry's fear.
The shouting.
The labels.
All of it blurred, muffled, distant.
Alden's hand was steady.
His voice, when it came, did not shake.
"Avada... "