Bagman stared at the proposal, his mind reeling—it might as well have been titled a "Student Extermination Plan."
He knew that agreeing to it wouldn't just mean getting booted from the family estate. The bigger question was whether the estate would even still be standing afterward.
But if he refused…
Right now, under the weight of countless staring eyes, Bagman sweated buckets, as if he were a rotisserie pig with grease sizzling off his prodigious gut.
"Th-that—could we maybe tone it down a notch—"
"Just follow Mr. Vincent's instructions."
A low, gravelly voice cut through the crowd.
Heads swiveled.
There stood the new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour.
At once, a flicker of pity crossed the onlookers' faces.
The Minister lifted his gaze to Ethan. That iron-hard face, usually unyielding, now carried a trace of exhaustion.
…Even the toughest soul would feel a chill at the sight of such a monster.
Perhaps only a lunatic with a twisted mind, like Mr. Lamp, would delight in that kind of terrifying power.
Ethan flashed a wide grin. "Perfect."
"Trust me—after my training, the champions will be sharp enough to shrug off anything Mr. Lamp throws at them!"
After all, Mr. Lamp was him. The difficulty? Entirely his call.
"Excellent. I'm eager to see the outcome of this tournament."
Minister Scrimgeour gave a curt nod. Inwardly, he exhaled. …Thank Merlin for Ethan, this selfless hero, stepping up to face whatever lay ahead.
The Enlightenment Society—Ethan's brainchild—had also played its part in repelling the recent attack. Let's funnel a little extra gold to Hogwarts. They were the future, after all.
At that moment, the portly Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman, elbowed his way forward. He sidled up to the Minister and hissed, "Minister! You haven't even read Ethan's proposal—I'm telling you, the other schools will never sign off!"
"No need to fret about that."
Scrimgeour shut him down flat.
Every past Triwizard Tournament had been a disaster waiting to happen. How bad could Ethan's ideas possibly be?
"O-okay, Minister…"
Bagman hung his head, surrender complete. In his mind's eye, the family tree was already drifting out of reach.
Minister Scrimgeour: "One more thing, Mr. Vincent. The Ministry ought to recognize your courage in volunteering…"
In the end, the Ministry bestowed upon Ethan the Order of Merlin, Second Class.
When the gold medal—draped on a ribbon of royal purple—pinned itself to the lapel of Ethan's black suit, practically every witch in Britain clipped the photo from the Daily Prophet and tucked it into her diary.
—Order of Merlin, Second Class! The same tier as Newt Scamander, the beast-tamer who once stood against Grindelwald. Practically nipping at the heels of Dumbledore's First Class!
"And mark my words—Ethan'll have a First Class before long."
At The Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta slurred, cheeks glowing like ripe apples. "Yesh, yesh—Ethan performed right here in my pub… biggest night of my life! Standing ovation! The whole room on its feet, clapping till their palms bled for his flawless technique!"
She spun the tale for every customer, arms flailing, voice rising with each retelling. In her version, Ethan had sprouted three heads and six arms and juggled dragons bare-handed.
"To our hero—hic—Ethan Vincent! Cheers!"
Madam Rosmerta hoisted her glass, wobbling.
The pub roared back: "To Ethan! To the Light!"
"Cheers!"
Though "Light" was a bit rich for a pack of grizzled bachelors who slaved all day and stumbled in at midnight to drown yesterday's regrets. It was as distant as the Ministry's victory speeches the day You-Know-Who vanished.
Still—any excuse for another round.
One firewhisky later, "Ethan" and "Mr. Lamp" were ancient history. The talk turned rowdy:
"Werewolves everywhere these days…" "Tell me about it—middle-of-the-night piss break, wolf howl right outside the window! Nearly pissed myself on the spot!"
"Ha! Next thing you know, You-Know-Who's back!" "Give it time—Grindelwald'll be strutting out of Nurmengard any day now!"
Summer night air, thick with butterbeer and laughter, spilled through the windows in warm orange ribbons. Life, it seemed, rolled on unchanged.
Meanwhile, two letters—borne by massive eagle owls—winged north to the frozen crags and west to the perfumed gardens of Europe.
Durmstrang Institute.
"…What in Merlin's name is a 'Triwizard Tournament Risk Disclaimer Consent Form'?"
Headmaster Igor Karkaroff squinted at the parchment, brow furrowed. He scanned the event details and gave a derisive snort. "The entire program falls under Ethan Vincent's discretion… Heh. That fourth-year prodigy who's been hogging headlines, right?"
The same "genius" who, as a first-year, had humiliated their star seeker, Viktor Krum, in the Labyrinth Exploration Challenge.
Whoosh! A tongue of flame licked from Karkaroff's palm. The letter curled, blackened, and drifted to the floor in ash.
He brushed the soot from his fingers, then clapped a heavy hand on Viktor Krum's broad shoulder. Voice low and venomous: "'Mr. Lamp,' 'new Savior'—nothing but British coward's propaganda!"
"Just parlor tricks. Look how they quake!"
"Krum, you are Durmstrang's finest. This cup is yours."
He spoke as if the other students weren't even there, their faces darkening in the shadows. Karkaroff's snake-slit eyes bored into his protégé. "Go show those fossilized Brits who the real star of wizardkind is."
Ethan wasn't competing—only designing the trials. A pity. But if Durmstrang breezed through his obstacles, the message would be louder still.
"Yes, Headmaster."
Krum's fists clenched; fire sparked in his dark eyes. Ethan… I'm not that helpless first-year anymore.This time, your own challenges will crown the victor.
Karkaroff watched the boy's resolve harden and allowed himself a thin smile. Then he hissed, clutching his left forearm—the Dark Mark pulsed, hot beneath the sleeve. A shadow crossed his face.
More than any phantom "Mr. Lamp," it was that brand—that Death Eater's brand—flaring on and off lately that gnawed at him.
"Let it be imagination," he muttered.
Across the continent, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
Fleur pressed the letter to her heart, silver hair spilling over the parchment. She stared past the palace windows, voice a breathless murmur: "Ethan… soon. Wait for me."
She bit her lip, pearl teeth flashing. Anticipation and old humiliation warred across her flawless face.
Three years ago, that crushing defeat remained the single blemish on her rose-proud life.
"This time I'll show you the real Fleur—not some sniveling girl locked in a bathroom stall!"
Just then, Madame Maxime's booming voice rolled in from the doorway: "Fleur, ma petite—what is this 'Triwizard Tournament Risk Disclaimer Consent Form'? The British Ministry sent it with the invitation…"
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