Dumbledore was indeed remarkably calm.
He even felt a faint urge to chuckle.
If Ethan truly wanted to participate, he wouldn't resort to such a convoluted scheme.
He could simply stride up to the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, plant a foot on their neck, and rewrite the rules himself.
So this slip of paper had to have been slipped in by someone else.
Whoever was plotting against Ethan had picked the wrong target—and the wrong kind of luck.
Good deeds get good returns; evil deeds get Ethan.
Dumbledore mused idly.
"I didn't put my name in, Headmaster," Ethan said with perfect sincerity.
Anyone meeting those clear cobalt eyes would have sworn he was telling the truth.
And he was.
Barty had done the tossing—what did that have to do with Ethan?
"This is against the rules!"
Karkaroff erupted on the spot, slamming the table so hard his beard quivered like a storm-tossed hedge.
He glared between Dumbledore and Ethan, convinced this was a blatant Hogwarts stitch-up.
Madame Maxime said nothing, but her lips pursed in a way that could curdle milk.
The Great Hall crackled with tension.
Ethan scanned the room.
He had braced for the classic fourth-year script: whispers, side-eyes, the slow freeze of suspicion.
Instead he saw trust—raw, uncomplicated trust.
"Ethan's being framed—"
"No way he'd break the rules!"
"Someone's gunning for him—"
"Who's that desperate?"
Luna's soft voice drifted in at his elbow. "It seems people can still tell chalk from cheese, can't they?"
"—Huh. Color me surprised."
Ethan gave a low hum.
Under Luna's gentle smile he felt the knot in his shoulders loosen a fraction.
After a beat of silence, Mr. Crouch—the man with the final say—spoke with the weight of law:
"The Goblet's magic is binding. Whoever is chosen must compete."
"Therefore, Ethan Vincent will take part in this Triwizard Tournament."
The words hit the Hall like a Bludger to the gut.
Madame Maxime shot to her feet, palm cracking the table; Karkaroff roared in tandem.
Accusations ricocheted like hexes.
Ethan's expression never flickered.
But Michael, sitting beside him, went cold at the sight of a playing card sliding between Ethan's fingers—sleight of hand, silent promise.
Please, for the love of Merlin, how many lives do these people think they have?
Magical pressure began to coil, thick as incense—
Then a voice like a cathedral bell sliced clean through the chaos:
"SILENCE!"
Albus Dumbledore, hair bristling like a lion's mane, stood atop the dais radiating fury and authority in equal measure.
The other headmasters shut up mid-shout.
"I believe," Dumbledore continued, calm as winter glass, "that since the Goblet has spoken, the fairest course is to let Ethan compete—on terms that level the field."
His gaze settled on Ethan, mild and knowing.
The Hall held its breath.
Ethan flicked a glance at the two headmasters—faces the color of old parchment—then snorted and vanished the card.
Old man still had mercy to spare.
He'd been half a heartbeat from deploying The Shrike and teaching them manners the hard way.
At that moment "Professor Moody" rasped into the hush:
"I've got a notion—"
Every eye snapped to the scarred newcomer.
Mr. Crouch's brow furrowed; something about that jagged face tugged at memory.
The magical eye whirred, scanning the room, and Moody croaked:
"How about we make Vincent the final challenge?"
"Clear the tasks, earn the right to face him. Performance decides bonus points."
Dean Thomas blurted, "That's literally a final boss!"
The penny dropped for everyone at once.
Ethan Vincent: Triwizard endgame DLC.
Of course.
Ethan's gaze sharpened on "Moody," reading the subtext in that offhand drawl.
Killing him inside the tournament proper was messy—too many eyes, too many rules.
But let the champions do it "by accident" in the finale?
Clever.
A slow grin curled Ethan's mouth; his pulse thumped like war drums.
He could, of course, crush every scheme with raw power.
But where was the fun in that?
He'd picked Light over the bloodthirsty Red Cup for a reason.
He wanted his enemies to lose convinced—five-star reviews only.
"This—this could work," the headmasters muttered, exchanging calculating looks.
Beat Ethan fair and square? Extra glory. Perfect.
"Ethan—"
Fleur's teeth worried her lower lip, silver eyes alight.
Then she blinked.
It wasn't just the foreign champions itching for a swing.
Even Hogwarts' own looked hungry.
For a moment the Hall blurred, and she was back in the labyrinth years ago—Ethan against the world, grinning like a devil.
Some things never changed.
"Hmph. Still ridiculous, that boy," she murmured, a nostalgic smile ghosting her lips.
No further objections.
Motion carried.
"Oh, one more thing," Ethan said lightly, lobbing a grenade into the silence:
"First task is dragons."
Time hurtled to the end of November.
First task day.
Thanks to Ethan's casual spoiler, every champion had spent weeks cramming anti-dragon tactics.
Durmstrang swaggered loudest.
Karkaroff twirled his goatee. "We don't shy from the Dark Arts—strongest offense in the tournament."
"Probably just some showy Ridgebacks or Welsh Greens. Blind the eyes, job done."
Krum grunted agreement and led his two teammates toward the champions' tent.
Outside, the arena roared.
A vast stone circle, tiered stands rising like cliffs, banners snapping in a riot of color and noise.
Inside the tent, Krum scowled at a blonde reporter cornering Harry and the Weasleys.
"Reporters aren't allowed in here," he growled.
"Oh, don't be so stiff~" Rita Skeeter purred, hips swaying in acid-green silk as she pounced.
"Word is you despise one of the organizers—Ethan Vincent. Care to comment?"
Whoosh.
The tent flap lifted.
"Everybody ready, or—Portal."
"AH—"
Rita's scream cut off as the floor yawned into a black circle. She plummeted, questions and all, into nothingness.
"You may now enter the arena," Ethan said pleasantly from the threshold.
That innocent smile left the champions momentarily speechless.
Efficient. Deeply satisfying.
Nerves jangling, they filed out.
Beauxbatons sent Fleur; Durmstrang, Krum and his two shadows.
Hogwarts fielded Harry and the Weasley twins—Cedric benched with a rueful shrug.
Dragon-slaying was a Gryffindor trio job; their teamwork was unmatched.
Ethan strode to the arena's heart, wand aloft, sunlight flaring off the tip.
"Then—let's begin!"
His voice rang over the thunderous crowd.
"I declare the first task of the Triwizard Tournament—"
Clang.
Every task official drove their wand into the earth.
Magic surged—wild, electric.
The sky above the arena blacked out.
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