The manor was quiet in a way Alden had not heard since childhood.
Not the hollow quiet that followed grief, nor the restless silence of nights spent studying until dawn—but something cleaner. Finished. As though the house itself understood that this was a departure, not a pause.
Alden stood before the mirror in his room, adjusting the fall of his robes with slow, deliberate care. Slytherin green and silver—pressed, repaired, immaculate. The uniform felt strange after months of loose shirts and ink-stained sleeves, after days that had blurred together without ceremony or witness.
His hair had been trimmed, though not cut short. It still brushed his collar, silver-white and fine, refusing to lie entirely flat. There was a faint shadow along his jaw now—uneven, half-formed, catching the light differently than it used to. His face looked sharper than he remembered. Paler, too. Winter without sunlight had left its mark.
He barely recognized himself.
The trunk lay open at the foot of the bed. Packed precisely. Books stacked by subject and revision. Notes bound and labeled in his own neat hand. His wand was secured within layered wards, quiet and absolute. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing forgotten.
Everything controlled.
He closed the trunk and rested his hand on the lid for a moment longer than required.
April first.
The letter was folded neatly inside his inner pocket. He had read it enough times that the words no longer surprised him. They steadied him.
Suspension concluded. Return permitted.
Dumbledore remembered me.
The thought came unguarded—and he let it stay.
Crix appeared in the doorway without sound. The house-elf's gaze lingered longer than usual, sharp and searching, as though committing Alden to memory.
"The young master is ready," Crix said, though it sounded less like a statement than a confirmation.
"Yes," Alden replied, lifting the trunk handle. It rose obediently into the air beside him. "I am."
They moved through the manor together, past tall windows veiled against the night, past portraits that watched in respectful silence. Alden did not look at his parents' frames. He had already said everything there was to say.
At the entrance hall, Crix stopped.
"Crix does not wish to trouble the young master," he said carefully, "but… Crix has a bad feeling."
Alden paused.
The words were simple. Not dramatic. Not prophetic.
He turned, meeting the elf's gaze, and for a moment the composure he had worn for months softened just enough to reveal the boy beneath it.
"It'll be fine," Alden said quietly. "I'm just going back to school."
Crix's ears twitched. "Yes, young master."
Alden hesitated, then reached out and rested a hand briefly on Crix's shoulder. The gesture was unfamiliar, almost awkward—but sincere.
"I'll write," he said.
Crix bowed deeply.
The apparition was clean and instantaneous. One moment, the manor held him; the next, it did not.
King's Cross was empty.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters lay silent beneath the high iron arches, lanterns casting long, lonely shadows across stone. No parents. No students. No chatter. The Hogwarts Express waited alone, steam rising in slow, patient curls.
Alden stepped onto the platform without hesitation.
There was no one to look at him. No one to look away.
He boarded the train alone.
The carriage was empty. Every compartment dark, every seat untouched. The door slid shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
As the train pulled away, Alden sat by the window, watching the city dissolve into the distance. The rhythm of the tracks was steady, hypnotic. Time stretched. Thought slowed.
He rehearsed nothing.
There was nothing left to prepare.
The journey north passed without interruption, without voices, without company. Just motion. Just inevitability.
When the train finally slowed, Alden rose, straightened his robes, and lifted his trunk.
Hogsmeade Station waited in silence.
The doors opened.
Cold air rushed in.
The platform beyond was empty—lamps humming softly, stone damp beneath their glow, the hills dark and indistinct beyond the tracks.
No snow.
No witnesses.
Alden stepped down onto the platform.
And the night closed around him.
The moment Alden's shoes touched the stone, the air changed.
Not audibly. Not visibly. But with the unmistakable pressure of magic snapping into place—wards overlapping, intent sharpening, space itself tightening as if the platform had drawn a breath and decided not to release it.
He had just enough time to register the sound of the train doors closing behind him.
Then they were there.
Apparition cracks split the quiet in rapid succession—controlled, precise, practiced. Aurors resolved out of nothing, boots striking stone in near-unison, cloaks settling like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence already written.
Alden did not move.
He did not reach for his wand.
He did not need to.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood directly ahead of him, tall and immovable, presence steady as bedrock. His expression was unreadable—professional, composed, eyes dark and watchful. To his right, John Dawlish adjusted his grip on his wand, jaw tight, posture rigid with rehearsed certainty.
More Aurors fanned out behind them, forming a clean, inescapable arc. Containment wards flared faintly at Alden's feet, then sank into the stone, invisible but absolute.
Alden felt the magic clamp down.
Not painful.
Just… final.
Behind the Aurors, beneath one of the humming platform lamps, stood the others.
Director Selwyn was immaculate, as always—dark coat fastened precisely, hands clasped behind his back. His face held no triumph, no anger. Only relief. The sort that came from closing a file at last.
Inquisitor Vane hovered a step behind him, posture stiff, eyes sharp and brittle. He did not meet Alden's gaze.
And then there was Dolores Umbridge.
She wore soft pink.
The color was almost luminous beneath the cold lamplight, cheerful in a way that felt grotesque against the damp stone and the quiet hum of wards. Her smile was wide, pleased, practiced—like a hostess greeting a guest who had arrived exactly when expected.
"Well," she said brightly, her voice carrying far too easily in the empty station, "there you are."
Alden looked at her.
Not with shock.
Not with fear.
With understanding.
Kingsley stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and regretful in equal measure.
"Alden Dreyse," he said, "you are hereby taken into Ministry custody."
Alden inclined his head slightly. A reflex. Polite. Almost old-fashioned.
"On what charge?" he asked.
Umbridge gave a little laugh, as though he'd made a charming joke.
"Oh, really," she said. "Must we start there?"
She stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the stone. Kingsley did not move to stop her. The Aurors' line did not break—but it did not need to.
"You see," Umbridge continued, clasping her hands together, "you were never permitted to return to Hogwarts at all."
Alden's eyes flicked to Selwyn.
The director met his gaze for half a second.
Then looked away.
"Your suspension," Umbridge said sweetly, "was never lifted. It couldn't be. The Ministry was watching very closely, you know. So dreadfully concerned."
She leaned in, lowering her voice as though sharing a confidence.
"Dumbledore knew better than to try."
The words settled slowly.
Deliberately.
Alden felt something inside him still—not shatter, not break—but lock into place.
"The letter," he said quietly.
Umbridge beamed.
"A necessary fiction," she replied. "We needed you here. Cooperative. Compliant." Her smile sharpened. "And you were so well-behaved."
Selwyn cleared his throat.
"Mr. Dreyse," he said evenly, "you are being remanded to Azkaban, pending further review."
"Further review?" Alden echoed.
Vane finally spoke, voice tight. "For the protection of the wizarding community."
Umbridge nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly."
Alden looked past them, down the empty tracks. Toward the dark hills beyond. Toward Hogwarts, hidden just out of sight—close enough to imagine, far enough to be unreachable.
No students.
No professors.
No witnesses.
Kingsley stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I'm sorry," he said, and Alden believed him.
Umbridge raised a gloved hand, revealing a small, unremarkable object resting in her palm. It pulsed faintly, eager.
A Portkey.
Already active.
Already decided.
"Oh, don't dawdle," she chirped. "We're on a schedule."
The Aurors closed in.
And the world tilted—not into chaos,not into darkness,but into something far worse:
procedure.
Alden's hands were bound now.
Not ropes—magic. Clean, Ministry-issued restraints that hummed faintly against his wrists, suppressing rather than constricting. Efficient. Thoughtful. Cowardly.
He looked at them once, then lifted his gaze back to Dolores Umbridge.
"You don't have the authority for this," he said calmly.
The words were not defiant. They were factual.
There was a fractional pause.
Kingsley's eyes flicked sideways, just briefly.
Umbridge's smile did not waver.
"On the contrary, Mr. Dreyse," she replied brightly. "I have all the authority required."
Alden tilted his head slightly. "Only the Headmaster may sentence a student to Azkaban."
Selwyn inhaled sharply through his nose.
Umbridge clasped her hands together, rocking once on her heels. "How very observant of you."
She stepped closer, stopping just outside the radius of the Aurors' formation. Close enough to be heard clearly. Close enough to be deliberate.
"I am the Headmistress now," she said, savoring the title. "Effective immediately."
The words settled like dust.
"There is," she continued sweetly, "nothing further to discuss."
Dawlish shifted his weight, frowning. Kingsley did not move.
Alden absorbed this without visible reaction. No flinch. No tightening of the jaw. Only a slow, thoughtful breath—as though cataloguing a final data point.
"I see," he said.
Umbridge lifted the Portkey slightly, ready.
"Ah—" Alden added, gently. "One last thing, Professor."
Her hand stilled.
She looked at him, genuinely curious now, like a child waiting to hear the punchline to a joke she was certain she'd enjoy.
"Yes?" she said.
Alden raised his eyes fully to meet hers.
For the first time since stepping onto the platform, his expression shifted.
Not to anger.
To serenity.
"Do you remember," he asked quietly, "what I told you during your first class?"
Umbridge blinked.
Selwyn stiffened.
Vane's fingers curled involuntarily.
"I said," Alden continued, unhurried, "that if someone were ever tasked with containing a person of truly dark nature—alone, unprepared, without allies—"
He paused, just long enough for the silence to lean in.
"They wouldn't contain them," he said. "They would die."
The smile on Umbridge's face faltered.
Just slightly.
"Quickly," Alden added. "Quietly."
He inclined his head, as if recalling a footnote.
"People would ask questions, of course. Investigate. But they wouldn't find much." A faint, almost apologetic shrug. "There rarely is."
For a heartbeat—just one—Dolores Umbridge did not look powerful.
She looked small.
The platform seemed to contract around them. Even the Aurors felt it—an instinctive tightening, a collective, confused awareness that something had shifted and they did not understand how.
Alden went on, voice smooth as parchment.
"So, for your sake, Professor—if you ever decide to try again. To make an example of me. Out of pride. Or ego. Or because you believe fear substitutes for authority—"
He stopped.
Let the words frost over.
"—I hope you're prepared for the consequences."
His gaze flicked, briefly, to Selwyn.
Then to Vane—who still could not bring himself to look back.
"You see," Alden said mildly, "it took you eight Aurors, two Inquisitors, and the Director to do this."
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"And even then," he added, "you still brought the man I nearly killed."
Selwyn's jaw clenched.
"I beat your field agents without trying," Alden continued conversationally. "I dismantled your demonstration in front of the entire school. I even heard that the L.I.A was dismantled after the backlash the ministry received when it was discovered that their top agents were beaten by a fifth year in Hogwarts."
He leaned forward just enough for Umbridge to hear him clearly.
"So I hope—truly—that this decision brings you comfort."
His eyes hardened.
"Because if I ever leave Azkaban," he said, softly, "I will not be concerned with restraint."
The words were not shouted.
They did not need to be.
"I've read the reports," Alden went on. "You know the ones. Redacted. Sanitized. You know what my parents did during the war."
Umbridge's face had gone very pale now.
"But you don't know how," Alden said.
A breath.
"And if fate, incompetence, or politics ever put you within my reach again—"
He smiled.
"—I promise you, Professor, you will."
Silence.
Thick. Electric.
The Aurors exchanged uncertain glances. Dawlish swallowed. Kingsley's expression did not change—but his eyes darkened.
Umbridge did not smile now.
She lifted the Portkey with a shaking hand.
"That's quite enough," she snapped, voice brittle. "Take him."
She activated it without another word.
The pull was violent—the world folding, wrenching—
—and Alden Dreyse vanished from Hogsmeade Station.
The last thing Dolores Umbridge saw was his expression.
Calm.
Certain.
Unafraid.
Smiling.