It was a pale-blue carriage, vast as a manor house.
More than a dozen winged horses, each the size of an elephant, hauled it through the sky.
When they touched down, Ethan felt the lawn shudder beneath his boots.
First-years toppled like dominoes, sprawling in every direction.
Whoosh!
Hooves the size of dinner plates reared skyward.
The Abraxans rolled wild eyes toward the Forbidden Forest, ears pinned flat with unease.
"Abraxans?" Michael Corner shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, voice pitched with awe. "Finicky beasts—rare, too. They'll only drink single-malt whiskey and eat fresh salmon."
Ethan's lips twitched. "Beauxbatons brought the whole circus just to flex."
He studied the golden steeds, curiosity outweighing caution.
One locked eyes with him.
In that heartbeat, the horse saw the top of the food chain staring back.
Whoosh!
A terrified shriek tore from its throat. It bucked, yanking the reins taut.
Clang!
The carriage lurched. Muffled screams leaked from within.
One spark, and the whole powder keg ignited.
The herd exploded—roaring, charging, hooves thundering like war drums.
Hogwarts students scattered, shrieking, desperate to avoid becoming red paste beneath the stampede.
Dumbledore's beard bristled; he lifted his wand—
A guttural triple-roar answered first.
From the earth rose a mountain of muscle and fury: Fluffy, the three-headed Cerberus. One swipe of a paw the size of a cauldron lid sent an Abraxan sprawling. The other two heads snapped forward, jaws clamping throats with surgical precision.
Black flames licked along its mane; the air itself seemed to recoil.
Then—
Screech!
A shadow eclipsed the sun.
The Death Bird plummeted, tattered wings beating hurricane gusts. Its silver-white staff carved a merciless arc.
Whoosh!
Hell-blue fire lashed out—chains of corruption that bound wings, froze legs, silenced screams.
The Abraxans thrashed harder, arrogance boiling into panic.
"Luna," Ethan said, voice flat as a frozen lake.
She was already moving.
Pushing through the petrified crowd, the slight third-year stepped into the kill-zone without hesitation.
To the towering, raging horses she lifted her wand and whispered, "Easy… easy now. You're safe."
Ghost-blue light drifted from her wand tip—gentle as moonlight on water, yet vast enough to cradle elephants.
One by one, the great heads lowered. Nostrils flared, then stilled. Hooves that had shaken the earth settled into soft turf.
"Good," Luna murmured, palm gliding over a velvet muzzle. "Just like that."
Michael's jaw hung slack. "Mum would say she's glowing."
Ethan's grin flashed—sharp, delighted, terrifying. "Close enough."
Clang!
The carriage door burst open.
Out poured a woman taller than Hagrid, silk robes billowing like storm clouds.
Madame Maxime straightened to her full, impossible height. Gasps rippled through the crowd; necks craned.
Her gaze swept the subdued Abraxans, the Cerberus panting steam, the Death Bird perched like a nightmare gargoyle.
Shock became calculation.
Abraxans only riot when threatened. Dragons? Here?
Then her eyes found the black-haired boy at the eye of the storm.
Solemn respect flickered across her face.
Fourth-year? Dumbledore himself might hesitate.
The Risk Disclaimer suddenly made chilling sense.
A second figure descended the steps—graceful, deliberate.
Every male head swiveled in perfect, cursed unison.
Silver hair coiled like moonlight; the blue silk uniform hugged a silhouette that could launch a thousand ships. Emerald eyes held the haughty tilt of a queen.
Fleur Delacour.
"Part-Veela," Hermione muttered, arms folded tight.
She flicked a worried glance at Ethan—still, unaffected, utterly himself.
Relief loosened her shoulders.
Fleur's gaze cut through the crowd and pinned him.
"Ethan Vincent!"
The name cracked like a whip. Her aloof mask shattered into something raw, electric.
With Madame Maxime's curt nod, she marched forward—heels striking stone, arms crossed, chin high.
She halted a foot away.
Emerald fire met winter-pale ice.
Silence stretched, taut as a garrote.
Fleur opened her mouth, closed it, glared harder.
Someone else spoke first.
"You must be Miss Fleur."
The voice floated like dandelion seeds.
Fleur spun, hackles rising.
Luna smiled up at her, serene as snowfall.
"I hear about you often," the younger girl continued, guileless. "All those letters kept our common room cozy last winter."
Fleur's smug curl faltered.
Two beats.
"YOU BURNED MY LETTERS?!"
Ethan lifted both hands, laughter rumbling low. "She's teasing."
"You'd better be," Fleur hissed.
"Actually," Ethan drawled, "we used them for kindling and target practice."
Fleur's eyes widened to saucers. "You—what?!"
His face split into that signature grin—handsome, boyish, wrong. The one that made you check for hexes.
She couldn't tell joke from truth anymore. Never could with him.
Blood rushed to her cheeks. Fists clenched until knuckles blanched.
"Just wait," she snarled. "I'll make you eat those words. And not just with beasts."
She flicked a venomous glance at Luna, whirled, and stormed back to her delegation—silver hair lashing like a battle standard.
Michael clutched his heart. "Three years, mate. Three. And she still remembers your name like a curse."
The other boys looked ready to hex Ethan into next week.
Ethan sighed theatrically. "Jealousy ages you fellas terribly."
He turned to Luna, expression softening a single degree.
"Third year. Goblet's age line."
"Let them see 'Loony Lovegood' doesn't just whisper to horses."
Luna's answering smile was small, ancient, unstoppable.
Ghost-blue light still coiled around her fingers—old magic, older than Hogwarts, older than names.
Ten Abraxans stood docile behind her, breathing steam in the Scottish dusk.
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