The word hangs in the air.
"Avada—"
It does not finish.
There is no green light. No rush of heat. No recoil of magic tearing free.
Instead—
"Expelliarmus."
Dumbledore's voice cuts through the Great Hall like a blade laid flat and final against stone. It is not loud. It does not need to be.
The spell strikes Alden mid-syllable.
His wand is ripped from his grasp with violent, undeniable force, torn free as though the magic itself has rejected him. It spins once, twice in the air—dark wood flashing end over end—before skidding across the shattered floor and coming to rest near the dueling boundary with a hollow, ringing crack.
The sound echoes.
It seems to go on forever.
Alden does not move.
His arm is still outstretched toward Selwyn, fingers curled as though they expect resistance—flesh, magic, something—that is no longer there. His hand trembles once, almost imperceptibly, before going still again.
For a moment, no one breathes.
Not the students frozen in the stands, mouths half open, eyes wide and shining with shock.
Not the professors standing rigid, wands raised but forgotten in their hands.
Not Selwyn, still on his knees in his own blood, staring at Alden as if he had just realized how close death truly came.
The silence is absolute.
It presses down, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of blood against stone and the distant creak of the enchanted ceiling settling back into place.
Alden's gaze flickers—not to Dumbledore, not to the watching crowd—but to the empty space where his wand had been.
For the first time since the duel began, his expression changes.
Not rage.
Not defiance.
Shock.
The realization lands slowly, brutally: the spell was stopped. Not deflected. Not resisted.
Taken from him.
Behind him, someone draws a sharp, involuntary breath. A sob is strangled before it can fully escape. Somewhere to the left, a bench scrapes softly as a student shifts and immediately freezes again, as though movement itself might draw attention.
Selwyn swallows.
His eyes are no longer sharp, no longer triumphant. They are wide now, fixed on Alden's outstretched hand, on the space where the Killing Curse almost existed.
For all his composure, for all his careful words and calculated traps, he cannot hide it.
He did not believe Alden would do it.
Not really.
Dumbledore steps forward at last, his presence filling the space between them without a single wand raised toward Alden. His face is grave, lined with something far heavier than anger.
"Alden," he says quietly.
The name is not a rebuke.
It is a call.
Alden's fingers finally uncurl.
His arm lowers, slowly, as though it weighs far more than it should.
The Great Hall remains silent—held, suspended in the aftermath of a spell that never was, and the knowledge that for one terrible heartbeat, it almost had been.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The Great Hall, moments ago a storm of magic and shouting, lay frozen in a silence so complete it felt unreal—like the world had stopped half a second too late.
Students stood where they were, hands half-raised, mouths still parted. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to hold its breath, stars unmoving, distant and cold.
Theo stared at Alden as though he were looking at a stranger.
That couldn't be right. It couldn't. Alden didn't lose control. Alden didn't lash out. Alden mocked the unforgivables—called them the refuge of the small and the frightened. Theo had heard him say it, more than once, in quiet corners of the common room, voice precise and certain.
And yet—
He had almost said the word.
Beside him, Daphne's face had gone pale, her fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of her sleeve. She shook her head once, barely perceptible, as if denying something only she could see.
That wasn't him, her mind insisted. That wasn't Alden.
Across the Hall, Selwyn remained on his knees, blood dark against the stone, his breathing shallow and uneven. He did not look away. Neither did Alden.
They stared at one another in absolute stillness—one unarmed, the other broken and bleeding—locked in a moment that felt unfinished, unresolved, as though the world itself were waiting to see which of them would blink first.
Then Dumbledore stepped forward.
Not hurried.
Not angry.
Controlled, in a way that made every adult in the room straighten instinctively, spines aligning as though pulled by an invisible string.
His presence filled the Hall.
"This demonstration," he said calmly, "is concluded."
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
A pause followed—just long enough to let the finality settle.
Then his voice hardened.
"All students will leave the Great Hall immediately."
Still, no wand was raised. No spell cast. Authority alone carried the command.
"You will follow your prefects directly back to your dormitories," Dumbledore continued, gaze sweeping the stands. "You will not speak. You will not linger."
His eyes moved, deliberate and penetrating, passing over faces, young and old alike.
"Any student who refuses," he said evenly, "will face consequences severe enough to be remembered."
That was enough.
Chairs scraped softly against stone. Robes whispered as students began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. No one ran. No one argued. No one dared break the silence.
They did not cheer.
They did not whisper.
They did not look back.
Some avoided Alden entirely, eyes fixed straight ahead as though acknowledging him might invite something dangerous.
Others glanced once—just once—then looked away immediately, fear flickering across their faces before they vanished into the flow of bodies leaving the Hall.
Theo was one of the last to turn.
He looked at Alden again, searching for something familiar—some trace of the boy he knew.
Alden did not look back.
Daphne's steps faltered for half a second, as though she might break formation, might say his name—but then she followed the others, her face carefully blank.
The doors closed.
The Great Hall emptied.
And the message left behind was unmistakable:
Alden Dreyse was not being dismissed.
He was being contained.
The doors had barely finished closing before the air in the Great Hall shifted again.
Wands came up.
Dolores Umbridge moved first.
Her smile was gone now—stripped away to reveal something sharp and eager beneath. She raised her wand and pointed it straight at Alden's back, hand steady, breath quick.
"In the name of the Ministry—" she began.
Vane and Thorne followed her lead without hesitation.
Vane's wand trembled with barely restrained fury, eyes bright, jaw clenched as if she were daring Alden to move. Thorne's was steadier, lower, but no less ready—his face pale, eyes locked on Alden with a mixture of fear and grim resolve.
Three wands.
Three lines of intent converging on a fifteen-year-old boy standing unarmed in the middle of the Hall.
McGonagall's response was instantaneous.
"Enough."
Her wand snapped up, angled not toward Alden—but toward Umbridge. Flitwick mirrored her a heartbeat later, his small frame rigid with authority, wand leveled squarely at Vane's chest. Snape moved last, but when he did, it was with lethal precision, his wand trained on Thorne, black eyes cold and unreadable.
The standoff was perfect.
Any spell cast would be answered in kind.
Magic hummed in the air, tight and coiled, as though the Hall itself were bracing for another rupture.
"Lower your wands," McGonagall said sharply. "All of you."
Umbridge's grip tightened. Her knuckles whitened.
"He attempted an Unforgivable," she hissed. "You saw it. That boy is a danger—"
"Lower. Your. Wand," McGonagall repeated, each word cutting cleanly.
For a moment, it seemed Umbridge might refuse.
Then Dumbledore spoke.
"Dolores."
Just her name.
Quiet. Mild.
It landed like a hand on the shoulder.
Umbridge's wand wavered—just slightly—before lowering an inch. Vane followed suit, lips pressed thin with rage. Thorne hesitated the longest, eyes flicking to Alden, then to Selwyn, before slowly lowering his wand as well.
The tension did not vanish.
It merely shifted.
Throughout it all, Alden had not moved.
He stood exactly where he was, shoulders squared, head level, eyes fixed on Selwyn.
Selwyn, still kneeling in his own blood, met his gaze without flinching.
They did not blink.
There was no need for words.
Selwyn saw it clearly now—the message carved into Alden's stare, colder and more intimate than any spell.
You live because he stopped me. Do not forget how close you came. One day, you will die.
Selwyn's breath caught, just once.
Not in fear.
In understanding.
Behind Alden, Dumbledore watched him in silence.
Not the Ministry's target.
Not the accused.
Not the almost–Dark Lord.
A boy, unarmed, standing amid the aftermath of a choice he had nearly made.
For a fleeting, unwelcome moment, another image rose unbidden in Dumbledore's mind—silver eyes alight with certainty, a young man standing just as straight, just as convinced that the world was wrong and he alone could see how to fix it.
Is this how it was meant to go? he wondered quietly. Or is this merely how it always goes, when brilliance is cornered?
He said nothing.
The Hall waited.
Magic held.
And Alden Dreyse, still fifteen, still silent, stood at the center of it all—no longer fighting, no longer speaking, but watched now with the same wary vigilance once reserved for legends and monsters alike.
Dumbledore broke the stalemate with a breath.
It wasn't a sigh. It wasn't weary.
It was deliberate.
"Professor McGonagall," he said evenly, without raising his voice, "I would like you to return to your House at once. Please ensure the students are settled and that no speculation is encouraged."
McGonagall hesitated—only for a heartbeat—then inclined her head. "Of course, Headmaster." Her eyes flicked to Alden once, sharp with worry, before she turned and swept from the Hall, tartan robes whispering purpose into the silence.
"Professor Flitwick. Professor Sprout. Professor Snape," Dumbledore continued. "I ask that you do the same. De-escalate what has occurred. Remind the students that this evening is not to be discussed."
Flitwick nodded, pale but resolute. Sprout murmured assent, lips pressed thin. Snape lingered a fraction longer than the others, his gaze cutting briefly to Alden—anger there, yes, but also something older and more complicated—before he turned and strode away.
Dumbledore's eyes then settled on Umbridge.
"Dolores," he said pleasantly, "you will escort Director Selwyn to the hospital wing immediately."
Umbridge opened her mouth.
Dumbledore smiled at her.
The smile did not reach his eyes.
"Immediately," he repeated.
Selwyn shifted, wincing as Pomfrey's name seemed to echo through his skull. Umbridge stiffened, then snapped her wand toward Selwyn with clipped efficiency. "Come along," she said sharply, all saccharine gone. "This way."
Vane and Thorne moved to flank them, wands still drawn, faces tight and strained. As they turned to go, Umbridge passed close—too close.
She leaned in as she walked by Alden, her voice low and wet with satisfaction.
"Monster," she whispered.
Alden moved.
It was instinct—raw and immediate—his hand curling into a fist, shoulder twisting as he took a step forward. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might strike her with nothing but his own strength.
Dumbledore was there instantly.
He did not grab Alden.
He placed himself between them.
A gentle hand came to rest against Alden's forearm—not restraining, but grounding. His other hand folded behind his back, posture relaxed, smile warm in a way that might have fooled anyone who hadn't just watched a Killing Curse die in a boy's throat.
"Dolores," Dumbledore said mildly, still smiling, "do mind your step. The floor is uneven."
Umbridge hissed under her breath but kept moving, heels clicking sharply as she ushered Selwyn and the others toward the doors.
Only when they were gone did Dumbledore turn fully to Alden.
For the first time since the duel ended, his expression softened.
Not forgiving.
Not excusing.
But deeply, unmistakably serious.
"Alden," he said quietly, "I would like you to accompany me to my office. Now."
Alden stood very still.
The rage had drained from him, leaving behind something hollow and cold. He glanced once—briefly—to where Selwyn had been, then back to the floor, as if the stone had suddenly become very interesting.
"…Okay," he said.
It was barely audible.
Snape reappeared at Dumbledore's side without comment and held something out. Alden's wand lay across his palm, dark wood smeared faintly with dust and blood.
Dumbledore accepted it with a nod. "Thank you, Severus."
Snape's eyes flicked to Alden one last time. "Do not mistake this for leniency," he said quietly. Then he turned and was gone.
Dumbledore gestured toward the far doors. "Come," he said gently. "I think we could both benefit from a cup of tea."
Alden followed.
His steps were steady. His shoulders were straight.
But the Great Hall, empty now and scarred with the aftermath of magic and choice, seemed to watch him go—silent witness to the moment when a boy had nearly become something else, and had been stopped only just in time.