The office had settled back into itself.
The instruments ticked softly again, their brass limbs moving with patient, indifferent purpose. A silver thread of steam rose from the teacup on the low table and vanished into the air, the liquid inside long since gone untouched, a faint skin forming across its surface.
Alden sat rigid in the high-backed chair opposite the desk.
His hands were folded in his lap—too tightly. The knuckles had gone pale, fingers locked together as though letting go might cause something inside him to spill out onto the carpet. He hadn't moved since sitting down. Hadn't reached for the tea. Hadn't looked at his wand, resting on the edge of the desk where Dumbledore had placed it, neither seized nor hidden, simply… there.
The silence stretched.
It wasn't hostile. It was worse than that.
It was patient.
At last, Alden spoke.
Not sharply.Not cleverly.Not with the careful precision he usually wielded like a blade.
Almost fearfully.
"Am I…" His voice caught, barely, and he had to swallow before continuing. "…going to Azkaban?"
The words sounded wrong as soon as they left his mouth.
Too small.Too heavy.Too final.
They hung in the air between them, fragile and enormous all at once.
Dumbledore did not answer.
He did not frown, or sigh, or soften his expression. He simply looked at Alden over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, blue eyes clear and steady, as though weighing not just the question, but the fact that it had been asked at all.
The seconds passed.
Alden's breath had gone shallow. He hadn't noticed when he stopped breathing properly, only that his chest felt tight, his ribs resisting each inhale as if bracing for impact.
This wasn't punishment.
This pause.
It was an acknowledgment.
The fear was not irrational. The question was not melodramatic. Given what had almost happened, it was earned.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke.
"No," he said.
The word was quiet. Absolute.
Alden's shoulders dropped an inch before he could stop them.
"Not tonight," Dumbledore added.
The breath Alden released was unsteady, pulled from somewhere deeper than his lungs. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it—only that letting it go left him faintly light-headed, the room tilting just a fraction before settling again.
He nodded once.
Didn't speak.
Didn't trust himself to.
Dumbledore did not move back to his chair.
He remained standing behind the desk, hands resting lightly on its edge, gaze steady on Alden in a way that made it impossible to pretend this was over.
"No," he said again, as though anchoring the word in place. Then, just as calmly, he continued. "However, that does not mean what occurred tonight can be brushed aside."
Alden did not look up.
The faint relief he'd felt moments earlier curdled, settling into something heavier in his chest.
"What you intended," Dumbledore went on, his voice even, unyielding, "would have warranted Azkaban."
The word landed without drama.
It did not need any.
Alden's fingers tightened together again.
Dumbledore did not soften his tone. He did not raise it either.
"What you almost did cannot be dismissed simply because it was interrupted."
A pause.
"But intent is not action," he said, precisely. "And the spell was never completed."
Dumbledore reached up then and removed his spectacles, folding them carefully before setting them on the desk beside Alden's wand.
"I disarmed you," he said, plainly, "before the curse was cast."
Alden nodded once.
He didn't argue. Didn't flinch.
He knew.
He had known the moment the wand had been torn from his hand—had felt the spell collapse inside him, unfinished, jagged, like a thought cut off mid-breath.
The knowledge did not comfort him.
If anything, it made things worse.
Because the only difference between where he was now and where he could have been was not will… or restraint… or choice.
It was timing.
Dumbledore let the silence stretch just long enough for Alden to begin bracing himself again.
Then he spoke.
"You will be leaving Hogwarts tonight."
The words were simple. Almost gentle.
They hit harder than Azkaban ever could have.
Alden's head snapped up, breath catching so sharply it hurt. "What?"
Dumbledore met his gaze without flinching.
"It is not appropriate for you to remain here for the time being," he said, and there was no anger in his voice—no disappointment either. Just certainty.
Alden stared at him, the room tilting slightly, as though the floor had shifted beneath his feet. "You're—" He stopped, tried again. "You're sending me away?"
"Yes."
The finality of it rang louder than any spell.
Dumbledore moved at last, walking around the desk, his steps unhurried. "You will board the train back to London this evening," he continued, as if discussing timetables rather than uprooting a life. "You will not travel alone. I will accompany you."
Alden's throat worked. "You…?"
"And Professor Snape will be present as well," Dumbledore added.
Snape. London. Tonight.
The color drained from Alden's face in a slow, unmistakable wave. His fingers loosened in his lap, then clenched again, as if searching for something to hold onto.
This wasn't an arrest.
No chains. No Aurors. No cell.
It was worse than that.
It was removal.
Exile dressed up as necessity.
"I—" Alden tried to speak, failed, then swallowed hard. "I haven't even—my things—"
"They will be gathered," Dumbledore said calmly. "You will have what you need."
Alden looked away then, his gaze catching on the familiar clutter of the office—the whirring instruments, the shelves of books, the quiet glow of the torches. Hogwarts. The only place that had ever felt remotely like home.
Tonight, it was being taken from him.
He pressed his lips together, breathing through the sudden tightness in his chest.
Leaving Hogwarts tonight.
Not because he was irredeemable.
But because he had come too close to proving that he might be.
Dumbledore watched him closely.
He saw it—the brief, sharp flicker behind Alden's eyes. Not anger. Not defiance.
Panic.
It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, smothered beneath composure and control, but Dumbledore had been Headmaster too long to miss it.
"Alden," he said quietly.
Alden looked back at him at once, as though the sound of his name had pulled him back from the edge of something.
"You are not expelled."
The words landed softly, but their effect was immediate.
Alden swallowed. Hard.
"Then…?" His voice was steadier than he felt.
"You are suspended," Dumbledore said.
The distinction mattered. Alden knew that. Expulsion closed doors. Suspension left them ajar, if only barely.
But the next words mattered more.
"For how long," Dumbledore continued, "I do not yet know."
Alden's jaw tightened.
A pause.
"Likely until next term," Dumbledore said at last. "After Christmas, at the earliest."
The silence that followed stretched thin and long.
Weeks.
Months.
A term of absence, carved out of his life and laid end to end like a sentence he couldn't quite finish reading.
Away from classes.Away from the library.Away from the quiet certainty of routine.
Alden nodded once.
Not in agreement.
In acknowledgment.
He sat very still, as if moving might make the weight of it settle faster, heavier. His eyes drifted to the window, where the night pressed close against the glass, dark and waiting.
Christmas.
It sounded distant. Abstract. Like something that belonged to someone else's future.
Suspended.
Not expelled.
Not imprisoned.
Just… removed.
Long enough, Dumbledore knew, for the silence to do its work.
And long enough for Alden to feel the cost of standing exactly where he had stood tonight.
Alden nodded.
Once.Then again.
The movement was small, contained, as though he were afraid that anything larger might give him away. His shoulders trembled—only slightly, just enough to betray the effort it took to keep himself still. He pressed his lips together, gaze fixed somewhere just above the edge of Dumbledore's desk.
He understood.
That was the worst part.
Understanding did not make it easier to accept.
"I—" He stopped himself, inhaled slowly through his nose. "All right."
The word sounded thin in the space between them.
Dumbledore watched him for a moment longer, blue eyes thoughtful, assessing not the answer but the cost of giving it. Then his tone shifted—not softer, but more deliberate, more focused.
"I have a request of you."
That made Alden look up.
Not quickly.Not sharply.
Just enough for his eyes to meet Dumbledore's.
"What is it?" he asked.
Dumbledore did not reply at once. He turned back toward the desk, straightening the spectacles he had set aside earlier, as though arranging his thoughts with the same care.
"Come to terms with what happened tonight," he said finally.
Alden's fingers tightened against his knees.
"There will be fallout," Dumbledore continued. "Scrutiny will increase, not lessen. The Ministry will not forget what they witnessed—nor will the school."
He spoke plainly. No euphemisms. No reassurances dressed up as kindness.
"Your absence," he went on, "will be interpreted in many ways. Some charitable. Others not." A pause. "For now, it is a mercy. Not a banishment."
Alden listened without interrupting, breathing slow and measured, though something in his chest felt tight and hollow all at once.
"This time away," Dumbledore said, turning back to face him fully, "is not merely to protect others."
His gaze sharpened—not harshly, but with intent.
"It is to protect you," he said, "from yourself."
The words settled over Alden like a weight he had been expecting, and yet still hadn't prepared for.
He nodded again.
Didn't argue.
Didn't ask how.
Only lowered his eyes, jaw clenched, as though bracing for a truth he already knew but had never wanted spoken aloud.
For the first time since entering the office, Alden looked every bit his age—smart, capable… and very, very young.
And Dumbledore, watching him, knew this was only the beginning of the reckoning.
Alden's head dipped.
For a long moment, he stared at the floor, at the faint scuffs in the stone where generations of shoes had worn the surface smooth. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than it had been all night.
"Why?"
The word barely carried.
Dumbledore did not interrupt.
"Why me?" Alden asked again, lifting his eyes now, grey-green and raw. "Why does it keep happening to me?"
He let out a breath that shook despite his efforts to steady it. "I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask for my parents, or my name, or what I can do. I didn't ask to be dragged into Ministry games or turned into a warning." His jaw tightened. "I just wanted to learn."
The office seemed to listen to him. Even the instruments quieted, their ticking softer, more distant.
Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him.
"Because life is not fair," he said gently, without preamble. "And it never has been."
Alden flinched—not because the words were cruel, but because they were simple.
"Some people," Dumbledore continued, "are dealt extraordinary hands. Others are not. And those who are not must decide whether they will be shaped by that fact… or broken by it."
Alden swallowed.
"This time away," Dumbledore went on, "will feel like punishment. In many ways, it is." A pause. "But it will also serve purposes you may not yet see."
He began to pace slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"It allows the Ministry to retreat without admitting defeat," he said plainly. "It gives them a reason not to escalate matters further—to claim restraint instead of fear."
Alden's brow furrowed.
"It allows the school time to breathe," Dumbledore added. "Memories dull. Sensation fades. What feels all-consuming tonight will, in time, become a cautionary tale rather than a fresh wound."
He stopped, turning back toward Alden.
"And it gives the Lineage Integrity Authority very little room to maneuver," he said quietly. "You nearly crossed a line they cannot publicly exploit without condemning themselves. They have more information than they know what to do with—and no clear path forward."
Alden stared at him. "So this is… strategy?"
"In part," Dumbledore admitted. "In part, it is also a necessity."
He softened then, just a fraction.
"And in part," he said, "it is mercy."
Alden's fingers curled in the fabric of his robes.
"You almost killed Director Selwyn," Dumbledore continued, unflinching. "That truth cannot be erased. But neither can the fact that you stopped—however late—before the spell was completed."
He met Alden's gaze squarely.
"This time away may very well be the reason you return to Hogwarts," he said, "instead of finding yourself in a cell."
The words settled slowly.
Alden looked away, breathing through the tightness in his chest.
"So I just… live with it," he said. Not bitterly. Not angrily. Just tired. "With the hand I was dealt."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "And you decide what you become because of it."
Silence fell again, heavier than before—but no longer crushing.
Alden nodded once, small and resigned.
He didn't like the answer.
Dumbledore was quiet for a long while after that.
He did not fill the space with reassurance, instruction, or wisdom shaped into something easy to swallow. He simply watched Alden—really watched him—in the way one does when trying to understand not what a person has done, but who they are becoming.
"At times," Dumbledore said at last, "you remind me very strongly of two men I once knew."
Alden lifted his head slightly.
"Mathius Grindelwald," Dumbledore continued, voice thoughtful, "and his brother, Gellert."
The names settled into the room like old ghosts.
"Mathius sought understanding," Dumbledore said. "Purely, earnestly. He wanted to know why magic behaved as it did—what it meant, where it bent, where it broke. He believed knowledge itself was neither cruel nor kind."
Alden's fingers stilled.
"And Gellert," Dumbledore went on softly, "believed much the same… but he mistook certainty for wisdom. He ran toward his conclusions with such speed that he never stopped to ask what waited for him at the end."
Dumbledore turned then, meeting Alden's eyes fully.
"You," he said, "are racing."
Alden's breath caught.
"Toward what?" Alden asked quietly.
Dumbledore shook his head. "That," he said, "is precisely the problem. I do not think you know yet."
The words were not an accusation. They were an observation—gentle and deeply serious.
"You are young," Dumbledore continued. "Brilliant, yes. Exceptionally so. But still young. And when one moves as quickly as you do—intellectually, magically—it is easy to mistake momentum for direction."
Alden looked away, jaw tightening.
"Tonight," Dumbledore said, "I did not see a monster. I did not see a Dark Lord in waiting."
Alden's shoulders sagged slightly at that.
"I saw a boy," Dumbledore said, "who reached the edge of something vast and frightening, and reacted before he truly understood what it would cost him to step over."
He paused.
"As for your parents."
Alden's eyes flicked back to him.
"What they did," Dumbledore said carefully, "whatever truths lie within Director Selwyn's records—those choices belong to them. Not to you."
Alden swallowed.
"Sins are not hereditary," Dumbledore said firmly. "Curiosity is. Intelligence is. Capacity is. But guilt?" He shook his head. "That is not something passed down in blood."
He stepped closer then, placing one hand lightly on the back of the chair opposite Alden, not touching him, but near enough to be felt.
"You are not responsible for the paths your parents walked," he said. "Only for the one you choose now."
The words sank in slowly, painfully.
"You must remember that," Dumbledore added, his voice lower now. "Especially when others try to convince you otherwise."
Alden sat very still.
For the first time since the Great Hall, since the duel, since the word Avada had almost left his mouth, something inside him eased—not healed, not forgiven, but steadied.
He nodded once.
"I don't know where I'm going," he admitted quietly.
Dumbledore's expression softened—not indulgently, but kindly.
"Then," he said, "your task during this time away is not to run faster."
He straightened.
"It is to find out where you wish to stand."
The office fell silent again, but this time it was not heavy.
It was waiting.