Chapter 277: Barty Jr: The Advantage Is Mine! Ethan's "Mimic Chest" Research Plan
Ethan's voice echoed through the silent Great Hall.
Every student stared at him, slack-jawed.
The upper years, at least, recovered quickly. After a brief moment of surprise, they exchanged glances and wore the calm, resigned expression of people thinking, Here we go again.
Every year, for better or worse, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor ended up in Ethan's hands. If the post had not already had a high turnover rate before Ethan ever arrived, they would have suspected he had cursed it himself.
The first-years, however, were not so composed.
"He actually dared to provoke a professor in front of everyone… that's so cool!" Dennis, the new Gryffindor, said excitedly.
He tugged on his brother Colin's sleeve and snapped several photos in rapid succession. The white flashes lit up Professor "Moody's" soot-dark, pot-lid face.
Hermione gave a small "hm," knitting her brows. "Ethan wouldn't pick a fight for no reason," she muttered. "He's usually very gentle and well-mannered."
At that, Ron's eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. "Gentle?" he muttered. "By demon standards, he's refined, sure."
On the dais, Professor "Moody" suddenly snorted.
He casually pulled a hip flask from his robes, tipped his head back, and took a long drink. Then he knocked Ethan's cards aside with a rough swipe and pulled a smile so hideous it could have cured colic.
"Good, evil, who cares?" he growled. "When you're facing dark wizards, there are only the living and the dead."
Huh.
Not a bad line.
Ethan raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised and a little impressed. No wonder this was one of the few Defence professors who actually taught them something of substance.
Thinking about it, in the original story, Harry had learned the Imperius Curse from Barty and the Cruciatus from mad Bellatrix. Take from the people, use it on the people indeed.
"Then I'll be looking forward to your performance," Ethan said. "Do your best, Professor Moody."
He put deliberate weight on the last four words.
He clapped "Moody" on the shoulder, then turned and sauntered down from the platform.
Barty froze.
Just now, for some reason, he had felt as if he saw a bubbling cauldron, thick with steam, and himself as one of the ingredients boiling inside.
He jerked back to himself, face darkening.
It's fine.
Even Dumbledore hasn't seen through my disguise. Ethan definitely can't.
The enemy is exposed. I'm hidden.
The advantage is mine.
On top of that, there is the mysterious, powerful Mr Lamp assisting from the shadows.
He would have to work hard to lose.
At the thought, Barty calmed again. He took another swig of Polyjuice Potion and glanced over at Dumbledore.
Ethan had just blatantly violated decorum, "encouraging" a professor in front of the entire school, and Dumbledore just stood there grinning like an idiot, as if the Headmaster's title already read "Vincent."
Barty seethed.
What has Hogwarts become?
Hmph. Once Mr Lamp ruled the world—together with the Dark Lord—Hogwarts would be theirs as well.
Lost in the fantasy, his eyes gleamed with reverence.
He had no idea that the Mr Lamp he adored was sitting right under his nose.
Dumbledore returned to the main topic and announced the year's grand event: the Triwizard Tournament.
The Hall erupted.
"Merlin! The Triwizard Tournament! I've only ever read about it in books!" Michael gaped, then suddenly thought of something. He grinned, elbowed Ethan, and said, "And Fleur will be here too, right, Ethan?"
The half-Veela from France bombarded Ethan with letters often enough that the boys had gone from envy and resentment to weary numbness.
"Hm."
Ethan rested his chin on one hand, idly traced the edge of his plate with another, and with his third hand gripped Michael's arm.
Wait.
Since when did he have a third hand?
Michael stared in horror at the thin, withered hand that had appeared from nowhere. On the verge of tears, he slowly turned back toward his plate.
I'm going to die, he thought.
Before he could fully process the horror, Dumbledore dropped another bombshell.
"Secondly, one among us has the honour of serving as one of this year's Tournament organisers…"
A heavy sense of foreboding settled in Harry's stomach.
A second later, it was confirmed.
"That person is Mr Ethan Vincent. Congratulations!"
It was like dropping from vibrant spring straight into the dead of winter. The Great Hall went absolutely silent.
"Pfft—cough!"
Professor "Moody" sprayed Polyjuice Potion across the staff table and stared at Ethan in disbelief.
Suddenly, Voldemort's entire organisation felt far too conservative.
Facing the stunned crowd, Ethan rose gracefully, bowed, and said, "I promise this year's Triwizard Tournament will go down in history."
"…"
"If Ethan would just hold back a bit, that alone would be historic," Ron muttered.
The students who had been shouting to enter the Tournament snapped their mouths shut.
"I take it back," Michael said under his breath. "If you're running it, never mind winning glory; getting through the corridors without being bagged and dragged off will be an achievement."
He could already imagine how torturous, how downright hellish Ethan's tasks would be.
"Accordingly, and at Mr Vincent's suggestion," Dumbledore continued, "this year's Tournament will have a few small changes."
"First, the age limit has been set at third year and above."
"Second, to ensure broader participation, each House will send three vetted champions into each task, and the houses will be ranked by the points they earn."
"The selection will take place at the end of October, after the other schools arrive."
That lit the room up again.
"Multiple champions! There used to be only one per school!"
"These new rules are brilliant! Otherwise, we'd all just be stuck watching!"
"Er… why do I feel like watching might actually be safer…"
Ethan's smile widened as the praise rolled around him.
He came, after all, from a land of etiquette.
Joy should be shared, not hoarded.
No lone-wolf heroics; he would bring everyone along, hand in hand.
"Another day of promoting virtue. I am far too noble," Ethan sighed.
You just want more victims, Michael thought, but did not dare say aloud.
Ethan did not notice the constipated expressions around him, as if everyone wanted to speak but could not. He laughed, thoroughly pleased.
This term, the Morning Star Club's practical curriculum had found its stage.
He had heard that Durmstrang's Dark Arts were formidable. Time to see how they compare to a real dark wizard teaching in person.
Ideas began to whirl in Ethan's mind.
Perfect.
He could use the time before the Tournament to create another crucial construct: a Mimic Chest.
Once lessons formally began, during Care of Magical Creatures, Ethan turned to Hagrid, the "master of magical-beast crossbreeding," and asked politely, "Hagrid, I want to raise one of these adorable creatures as well—Blast-Ended Skrewts, right?"