Ethan's voice rang through the silent Great Hall.
Every student gaped at him.
The upperclassmen recovered quickly. After a flicker of surprise, they traded knowing glances and settled into the weary calm of here we go again.
Every year, for better or worse, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor fell into one of Ethan's traps. If the post hadn't already been cursed to change hands faster than a Snitch, they'd swear Ethan had jinxed it himself.
The first-years, though, were still wide-eyed.
"He just challenged a professor in front of everyone… that's awesome!" Dennis Creevey, newly sorted into Gryffindor, bounced on his bench. He elbowed his brother Colin, who fired off a rapid burst of camera flashes.
The glare lit up Professor Moody's face, already the color of a burnt cauldron.
Hermione gave a soft "oh," brow creasing. "Ethan doesn't pick fights without reason. He's usually… gentle."
Ron's eyes rolled so hard they nearly vanished. "Gentle? By Dark wizard standards, maybe."
Across the hall, Moody snorted. He yanked a curved flask from his robes, took a swig, then slapped Ethan's cards aside with a grin that could curdle milk.
"Good people, bad people—when you face a Dark wizard, there are only the living and the dead."
Hmph. Hard to argue with that.
Ethan lifted an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-impressed. A professor who actually taught something useful. In the books, Harry had learned the Imperius Curse from Barty and the Cruciatus from mad Bellatrix. Taken from the people, used on the people.
"Then I look forward to your performance, Professor Moody." Ethan lingered on the last four words, patted the man's shoulder, and strolled off the platform.
Barty froze.
For a split second, he'd seen it: a bubbling cauldron the size of a house, and himself bobbing inside like a pale carrot.
He shook it off, face darkening.
Fine. Even Dumbledore hadn't pierced the disguise. Ethan couldn't possibly know.
Enemy in the light, me in the dark. The advantage is mine.
And with the mysterious, all-powerful Mr. Lamp backing him, Ethan wouldn't know what hit him.
Barty calmed, took another gulp of Polyjuice, and flicked a glance at Dumbledore.
The headmaster just stood there, twinkling like the headmaster's chair was already inscribed Vincent.
Barty's blood simmered.
How did Hogwarts fall this far?
Hmph. When Mr. Lamp and Lord Voldemort rule—Hogwarts will be ours.
A reverent gleam passed through his eyes.
He never noticed the man he idolized was sitting three seats away.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and moved on.
"Now, the event you've all been waiting for—the Triwizard Tournament."
The Great Hall exploded.
"Merlin's beard! I only read about it in Hogwarts: A History!" Michael Corner's jaw dropped. Then memory struck; he elbowed Ethan with a wicked grin. "And Fleur, right? The Veela girl who bombarded you with perfumed parchment all summer?"
The boys had gone from green-eyed envy to numb resignation.
"Mmm." Ethan propped his chin on one hand, traced his plate rim with another, and with a third— Wait.
Michael stared in horror at the extra, skeletal hand clamped on his forearm.
He swallowed a whimper and turned back to his pudding.
QAQ
Dumbledore wasn't finished. "Secondly, we are honored to have one of our own as an organizer this year—"
Harry's stomach sank.
"—Mr. Ethan Vincent! Congratulations!"
Spring crashed into winter. Silence swallowed the hall.
Professor Moody choked on Polyjuice, spraying it across three Ravenclaws.
He suddenly felt the Dark Lord's methods were… quaint.
Ethan rose, bowed with theatrical grace, and smiled. "I promise this Triwizard Tournament will be one for the history books."
Ron muttered, "He just has to restrain himself and it'll still go down in history."
Every student who'd been itching to enter went quiet.
Michael whispered, "I take it back. If you're running it, forget romance—people will stuff you in a sack and roll you into the lake."
He could already picture the tasks: riddles that ate your memories, mazes that rewrote your fears, dragons trained to quote poetry.
Dumbledore beamed. "At Mr. Vincent's suggestion, we've made a few adjustments."
"First, eligibility begins at third year."
"Second, to involve more students, each house will field three champions per task, ranked by points."
"Selection will occur end of October, after Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive."
Excitement reignited.
"Three champions! Before it was one per school!"
"Now we all get to play!"
"…Why do I feel spectating was safer?"
Ethan's lips curved, satisfied.
He hailed from a land of courtesy. Joy shared was joy doubled. No lone hero—everyone advanced together, hand in trembling hand.
Another day spreading virtue. Truly noble.
Michael thought: You just want more lab rats.
He lacked the courage to say it aloud.
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Ethan didn't notice the hall's collective constipation. He was already scheming.
This term, the Enlightenment Society's practical curriculum was set.
He'd heard Durmstrang excelled at Dark Arts.
Let's see how they fared under a real Dark wizard's personal tutelage.
An idea sparked.
Perfect.
Before the tournament began, he'd craft another essential creature: the Mimic.
—
First Care of Magical Creatures class after term start.
Ethan smiled sweetly at Hagrid, the undisputed king of hybrid horrors.
"Hagrid, I'd like to raise one of these charming little darlings—"
He gestured at the smoldering, scorpion-tailed abomination scuttling across the pen.
"Blast-Ended Skrewt, isn't it?"