The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so long.
They walked side by side, Alden and Dumbledore, their footsteps the only sound moving through the castle's veins. No voices followed them. No echoes of students, no laughter, no murmured gossip slipping through stone. Hogwarts had folded inward on itself, settling into a watchful hush, as though the castle itself were holding its breath.
Torchlight flickered along the walls, throwing gold and shadow across ancient stone. The flames bent slightly as they passed, disturbed by their movement, then steadied again—patient, eternal. Alden noticed the way soot had gathered in the grooves between bricks, how the banners hung motionless without even the faintest draft to stir them. Dust drifted lazily through the air, illuminated for a heartbeat before vanishing again.
He had walked these corridors thousands of times.
They had never felt like this.
Dumbledore did not rush him. He did not shorten his stride or lengthen it. He simply walked, hands clasped behind his back, robes whispering softly against the floor. Not an escort. Not a guard. Just presence—steady, unyielding, impossible to ignore.
The portraits watched them.
Some leaned forward in their frames, eyes sharp with curiosity that went unspoken. Others turned away entirely, suddenly fascinated by distant horizons or long-finished canvases. A few looked at Alden with something dangerously close to fear.
None of them spoke.
That silence hurt more than jeers ever could.
Alden's breathing sounded too loud in his own ears. Each inhale scraped; each exhale felt deliberate, controlled, as though if he stopped paying attention to it, something inside him might break loose again. His hands were clenched at his sides, fingers still remembering the shape of a wand that was no longer there.
Avada—
The word replayed in his mind, sharp and unfinished.
He saw it again: Selwyn on his knees, blood darkening stone. The way the Hall had tilted, narrowed, reduced itself to a single point of intent. The moment when nothing existed except the certainty that Selwyn should not be allowed to stand, to speak, to breathe another word.
And then—
"Expelliarmus."
The spell had cut through him like a blade.
Not loud. Not angry.
Absolute.
Alden swallowed, jaw tightening as the memory followed him step for step. The sound of his wand skidding across the floor echoed again in his thoughts, louder than any explosion, louder than the crowd had ever been. He had never heard silence fall so completely as it had in that moment.
They turned a corner, passing an arched window that looked out over the grounds. The night beyond was clear and cold, moonlight silvering the edges of the lake, the Forbidden Forest standing dark and unmoving in the distance. The world looked unchanged.
That felt wrong.
Hogwarts creaked softly around them, old wood settling, stone sighing under centuries of magic. Normally, the castle felt alive to Alden—responsive, curious, vast.
Now it felt like a witness.
Dumbledore said nothing.
That, too, was deliberate.
The quiet pressed in, not cruelly, but insistently, giving Alden nowhere to hide from his own thoughts. The anger was gone now, burned away in the aftermath, leaving something heavier behind. Not guilt—not yet.
Weight.
They climbed a staircase in silence. A suit of armor bowed as they passed; Alden barely registered it. His focus kept drifting inward, circling the same moment, the same choice, the same syllable that had nearly changed everything.
He had meant it.
That was the thought that refused to leave him.
Not a threat. Not a performance.
He had wanted Selwyn dead.
The realization sat in his chest like a stone as they continued upward, the quiet of Hogwarts closing around them, step by step, until the world narrowed to torchlight, shadow, and the steady, unhurried presence of the man walking beside him.
Alden stepped past it, and the door to the Headmaster's office sealed itself behind him with a soft, final click that echoed louder than it should have.
Dumbledore's office was warm.
Not just in temperature, but in feeling—crowded with life, cluttered with motion, humming gently as though it had never heard of duels or blood or the Killing Curse. Silver instruments whirred and clicked atop delicate spindles, thin jets of smoke puffing from one glass contraption only to be absorbed by another. Shelves groaned beneath the weight of books stacked without any apparent logic, their spines cracked, gilded, handwritten, alive with quiet power.
Portraits of former headmasters dozed in their frames, some snoring softly, others pretending not to watch.
Fawkes perched on his golden stand, feathers glowing faintly in the firelight. The phoenix's dark eyes followed Alden as he entered—unblinking, unreadable, ancient. Not judgment. Not comfort.
Witness.
The room smelled faintly of old parchment, lemon, and something indefinably magical, like rain on stone after a storm.
Dumbledore moved first.
He crossed to his desk and removed his hat, setting it aside with careful precision. Then, without ceremony, he placed Alden's wand atop the polished wood. Not snapped. Not locked away. Simply laid down, parallel to the desk's edge, where it caught the light.
Alden's gaze flicked to it once.
Then away.
Dumbledore did not comment on that. He turned instead to the small table near the fire, already reaching for a kettle with the ease of long habit. The motion was so ordinary—so painfully normal—that it felt almost unreal.
"Sit, if you would," Dumbledore said mildly, as though inviting a student in for a routine discussion about coursework.
Alden lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk. The cushions were softer than he expected. He sat stiffly anyway, hands resting in his lap, shoulders tight, eyes fixed somewhere between the floor and the edge of the desk.
Dumbledore poured hot water into two cups. Steam curled upward, catching the light. He dropped tea leaves into one, stirred slowly, then set it on the desk within Alden's reach.
"Lemon drop?" he asked, producing a small crystal bowl and nudging it forward.
Alden shook his head once. Barely.
Dumbledore accepted that without comment. He took the other cup for himself and sat, folding into his chair as though this were the most natural place in the world to be at this hour, on this night.
The ticking instruments filled the silence.
Alden did not touch the tea.
Did not reach for the wand.
Did not look at Fawkes again, though he could feel the phoenix's gaze like a weight against his skin.
The quiet stretched—not awkward, not forced. Just present. Long enough for the heat of the moment to cool into something duller. Heavier.
Dumbledore sipped his tea.
The Headmaster did not rush him.
And somehow, that made everything harder.
The silence eventually shifts.
Not because it breaks—but because Dumbledore chooses to move within it.
He sets his teacup down with a soft clink, fingers resting briefly against the porcelain before folding his hands together atop the desk. His gaze lifts at last, settling on Alden with a steadiness that feels heavier than anger ever could.
"Are you aware," Dumbledore asks, voice calm and level, "of what you almost did tonight?"
The question is not sharp.
It does not accuse.
It does not comfort.
It simply is.
Alden's jaw tightens. For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes drift—not to the wand, not to the door—but to the space just beyond the desk, where the firelight thins and the shadows gather. His pulse ticks loudly in his ears, each beat measured, undeniable.
"Yes," he says.
The word comes out hoarse, unused.
Dumbledore does not nod. Does not react at all. He waits.
Alden swallows.
"I know," he continues, more quietly now. "Exactly what it was."
His fingers curl against the fabric of his trousers, knuckles whitening as though bracing against something that still wants to surge forward.
"I wasn't… confused," he says. "I wasn't posturing. I wasn't trying to scare him."
His voice tightens, but he does not look away.
"I wanted him dead."
The words land heavily in the room, sinking into the soft hum of instruments and the quiet crackle of the fire. Even the portraits seem to be still, as though listening more closely.
Dumbledore does not interrupt.
Alden exhales, the breath shaky despite his effort to keep it controlled.
"Not in theory," he adds. "Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was… what people expect of me."
He finally lifts his eyes, meeting Dumbledore's gaze head-on.
"I wanted Selwyn dead. Him. Right there. On his knees."
There is no pride in his voice.
No justification.
Just a fact.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Dumbledore studies him—not like a judge weighing a verdict, but like a man listening to a truth he asked for and received without embellishment. The fire pops softly behind Alden, sending a brief spray of sparks up the chimney.
At last, Dumbledore inclines his head—not approval, not condemnation.
Acknowledgment.
"Thank you," he says quietly, "for answering honestly."
The words are simple.
The weight behind them is not.
Dumbledore does not respond immediately.
He does not lean forward. He does not soften his expression. He does not rescue the moment.
He simply asks, quietly—
"Why?"
The word is gentle enough to slip past Alden's defenses.
And that, somehow, makes it worse.
Alden lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His shoulders tense, then sag, as if the structure holding him upright has finally given up trying.
"I didn't think it would get to me," he says.
The words come out unevenly. Too fast. Not rehearsed.
"I really didn't."
He stares at the floor now, at the patterned rug beneath the desk, tracing the edge of one faded thread with his eyes as though it might anchor him.
"I've been called worse," he continues. "I've heard whispers since my first year. Dark. Dangerous. Wrong. I learned how to tune it out."
His mouth twists, something brittle passing across his face.
"I thought I was past caring."
The fire crackles softly. A brass instrument clicks and resets itself. Dumbledore remains utterly still.
Alden swallows.
"But this—" He breaks off, exhales sharply through his nose. "This was different."
He lifts his head again, not quite meeting Dumbledore's eyes, but close.
"It's the second week of term," he says, voice tightening. "Second. I haven't even settled into my classes. And already I've been cursed by a professor. Electrocuted for talking back. Paraded into the Great Hall like a specimen."
His hands flex, restless.
"They called it an investigation," he scoffs, the sound hollow. "An educational demonstration. But it wasn't that. It was a trial. And I was the only one on the stand."
Dumbledore does not interrupt.
Alden's words begin to trip over one another now, the careful precision he usually wields abandoning him entirely.
"Everyone was watching. Everyone. Professors. Students. People who were cheering for me five minutes earlier." His voice drops. "And then Selwyn started talking."
He goes quiet for a moment.
When he speaks again, it's softer.
"He talked about my parents."
His jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
"He dragged them out in front of everyone. Twisted them into monsters. And maybe—maybe parts of it were true, I don't even know anymore—but the way he did it…" Alden shakes his head once, sharply. "Like it was entertainment. Like it proved something about me."
He presses a hand briefly to his chest, then lets it fall.
"I felt the room turn," he says. "I felt it happen. The looks changed. The whispers changed. People who were on my side—who thought they were—suddenly weren't sure."
His voice cracks, just slightly.
"And it hurt more than I expected."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh.
"I didn't think it would," he admits. "I didn't think I cared."
A pause.
"I was wrong."
The admission hangs between them, raw and unguarded.
Alden rubs at his temple, fingers trembling now despite his efforts to steady them.
"I didn't decide to cast it," he says suddenly. "That's the part that scares me."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpens, but he does not speak.
"I didn't stand there and think, now I will do this," Alden continues. "I didn't weigh it. I didn't justify it. I didn't even… choose."
His breathing quickens.
"I realized what I was doing too late."
He looks up at last, eyes bright—not with tears, but with something more dangerous.
"I was already saying it."
The room feels smaller now. Heavier.
"I wanted him dead," Alden says again, the words stripped of all ornament. "Not because of the Ministry. Not because of politics. Because of what he said. What he took."
He hesitates.
Then, quietly—
"Part of me still does."
The silence that follows is dense, almost physical.
Dumbledore does not rush to fill it. He does not absolve. He does not condemn.
He lets the truth sit where Alden has placed it—unfinished, unresolved, and very real.
Dumbledore waited a moment longer before speaking.
Not because he is searching for the right words—but because he is watching Alden breathe again. Watching the storm inside him slow just enough to be spoken through.
Then, gently—
"Do you believe what Director Selwyn said," Dumbledore asks, "about your friends?"
The question is not sharp. It is not a trap.
It is almost… careful.
Alden doesn't answer right away.
He stares at the surface of the untouched tea, watching the steam curl and vanish, over and over. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than it has been all evening.
"I don't know."
He says it plainly. No bitterness. No anger.
Just truth.
"I didn't even think about them," he admits. "Not until he mentioned it. Not until he said it out loud."
His fingers tighten slightly around the arm of the chair.
"And now I can't stop."
He lifts his gaze—not to Dumbledore, but past him, as if the Great Hall still stretches somewhere beyond the walls.
"The way everyone reacted," Alden says. "Did you see it?"
Dumbledore inclines his head. He did.
"They wouldn't look at me," Alden continues. "Not when they were leaving. Not after." His mouth curves faintly, humorless. "An hour ago, they were cheering. Betting. Whispering about how the Ministry was going to be humiliated."
A pause.
"Then it changed."
He swallows.
"It always does."
His voice does not shake. That, somehow, makes it worse.
"They looked afraid," he says. "Like they didn't know what I was anymore. Like I might do something just because I could."
Alden exhales slowly, the sound controlled but heavy.
"Maybe that's all it takes," he murmurs. "One moment."
He shifts in his seat, shoulders drawing in slightly, as though bracing against a chill only he can feel.
"So how do I know?" he asks—not challenging, not accusing. "How do I know they're actually my friends, and not just… people who haven't been scared yet?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
"They'll leave now," he says instead, almost conversational. "I would."
The fire crackles. Fawkes tilts his head, feathers rustling softly.
Alden stares at the floor again.
"I think that's just how it's meant to be," he finishes. "Admiration until fear. Silence after."
There is no self-pity in his tone.
No plea.
Only resignation.
Dumbledore listens.
He doesn't interrupt. He does not correct Alden. Not yet.
He lets the words exist—heavy, unchallenged—because this, too, is part of what Alden must say before anything else can be done.
He lifts his teacup, takes a measured sip, then sets it down with deliberate care—as though the small, ordinary motion might steady something larger in the room.
When he finally looks at Alden, his gaze is clear. Not indulgent. Not distant.
Present.
"What you felt tonight," Dumbledore says quietly, "does not make you evil."
Alden's eyes flicker, but he says nothing.
"But," Dumbledore continues, and the word lands with weight, "what you nearly did cannot be ignored."
He folds his hands atop the desk, long fingers interlacing.
"There is a difference," he says, "between anger and intention. Between fury and choice. And there is a narrower, more dangerous difference still—between choosing a thought… and choosing an action."
Alden's jaw tightens.
"You crossed that line," Dumbledore says—not harshly, but without softness either. "Not with your wand. But with your will."
The instruments along the walls tick and whir, oblivious.
Dumbledore does not raise his voice. He never needs to.
"You were not wrong," he goes on. "About Director Selwyn. About the Ministry. About fear masquerading as governance."
Alden's gaze lifts then, sharp despite everything.
"They are afraid," Dumbledore acknowledges. "And fear, when given authority, often becomes cruelty."
A pause.
"But being right," Dumbledore says gently, "does not grant us permission to become what we condemn."
The words hang between them, unadorned.
He leans back slightly in his chair.
"I will not excuse what happened," he says. "Nor will I condemn you as irredeemable for it."
Alden exhales, slow and careful.
"As for your friends," Dumbledore adds, almost as an aside, "I would caution against assuming their departure before it occurs. You may be surprised by who remains when fear has had time to cool."
Alden's mouth curves faintly—not in a smile.
"We'll see about that," he says quietly.
Dumbledore does not argue.
Instead, he nods once.
"There will be consequences," he says, returning to the center of the matter. "Serious ones. Not as punishment for anger—but as a response to loss of control."
He lets the silence stretch.
"We will discuss them," Dumbledore finishes.
Another pause.
"Immediately."
The word settles, final and unavoidable.
Alden does not look away.
Whatever comes next, he knows one thing with absolute clarity:
This is not an ending.
It is a reckoning.