Ethan Vincent's piercing gaze swept over the sea of faces gathered before him. Curiosity, awe, adoration, and a flicker of jealousy danced in their eyes. The students of Hogwarts, alongside a handful of upperclassmen, had come to see him off as he embarked on a perilous journey to a treacherous destination: Herpo the Foul's Abandoned Mansion. Who could say if this would be Ethan's final competition? Would he venture forth and never return? The weight of the moment hung heavy, and a hushed silence fell over the crowd.
Every pair of eyes was locked on Ethan, as if willing him to break the stillness with a word, a gesture—anything.
Just then, Madam Pomfrey's voice cut through the tension from behind. "Wait a moment, Vincent! I've got a letter for you!"
Ethan paused, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. Without turning, he already suspected who the sender was. As he took the letter from her, a faint scent of damp earth and the crisp sweetness of fresh fruits and vegetables wafted toward him. His smirk softened into a genuine smile.
Scrawled across the envelope in a familiar, loopy script were the words: From Luna Lovegood, Ottery St. Catchpole.
He tore it open, revealing a single, simple sentence inside:
"I believe you will win."
Ethan exhaled deeply, the air escaping in a soft "Hoo." He lifted his gaze to the expectant crowd, their anticipation almost tangible. Raising his hand, he slowly clenched it into a fist, the motion deliberate and commanding, as if seizing the hearts of everyone watching. The crowd held its breath as one.
All the grand speeches he'd considered before this moment distilled into three unwavering words:
"I will win."
Thump!
The declaration landed like a hammer, reverberating through the crowd and sending a shiver down every spine. I will win! The words echoed in their minds, bold and unshakable.
But why was Ethan so confident? He'd never trained with a team, and he'd spent fewer years honing his skills compared to his competitors. By all logic, victory should have been out of reach.
"So handsome…" a young girl whispered, her cheeks flushed as she cradled her face in her hands. In her mind, she was already spinning a fantasy of growing up alongside Ethan, childhood sweethearts bound by fate.
Ethan paid no mind to the murmurs, the doubts, or the adoration. Belief or skepticism—it didn't matter. The results would speak for themselves. And with his newly acquired Cerberus by his side, he was ready to prove it.
Chin tilted upward, Ethan strode through the crowd with steady confidence. Behind him, Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein followed like loyal sentinels, their mischievous grins hinting at a secret only they shared. Hmph hmph hmph. They alone knew the devastating power of Ethan's hidden trump card.
Go, Ethan! they thought. Show those doubters who the true King of Hogwarts is—not some financial product, ha!
When Ethan arrived at the Great Hall, the other contestants were already assembled, their eyes glinting with competitive fire.
"Too bad," sneered a Slytherin, his voice dripping with disdain. "We thought you'd be too scared to show up, but there's still time to back out, Vincent."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, turning to face the speaker—Carrow. With a theatrical flourish, he pointed at the Slytherin and called out to Professor McGonagall, his voice ringing through the hall: "Professor, he's bullying me!"
The Great Hall fell silent. Every head turned.
Carrow's smug grin froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. What?! That's not how this is supposed to go!
Professor McGonagall, who had been adjusting the Portkey with the competition organizers, snapped her head up. Her sharp gaze sliced through Carrow like a Cutting Charm. "Watch your mouth, Mr. Carrow. Five points from Slytherin."
From the staff table, Professor Snape's icy voice added, "Idiot." His cold stare bore into his student, who shrank under the weight of it. Even Prefect Gemma Farley stepped away from Carrow, her expression one of cool detachment. If you want to dig your own grave, don't drag me into it.
Carrow's face flushed from pale to crimson, his jaw clenched in humiliated fury. He shot Ethan a venomous glare but bit his tongue, knowing better than to provoke further punishment.
Ethan caught the exchange of glances between Carrow and his friend, Marcus Flint. Strange, he thought. Why does their hostility feel so… deliberate? But he brushed the thought aside. After all, he wasn't the one who'd declared everyone here his "prey."
Clap!
Professor McGonagall's hands came together sharply, drawing all eyes to her. "Alright, let's proceed with the pre-competition teleportation. You'll be transported to the grounds via Portkeys. From there, the competition organizers will take over. I won't be accompanying you to the site."
"No need to worry, Professor!" boomed a cheerful voice. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, stepped forward, his round face beaming with confidence. His messy dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes gave him a boyish charm, despite his pot-bellied frame. "We've surveyed every inch of the terrain and thoroughly inspected every dangerous nook of Herpo the Foul's old haunt. We've preserved some of its original… flavor, but rest assured, it's safe for the students."
He chuckled, adding, "We've even got professional Aurors on duty for full-time supervision. Foolproof! This is just a training exercise, after all—no need to risk lives, right? Haha!"
Professor McGonagall's lips pursed, her disapproval of Bagman's cavalier attitude evident. Still, his assurances eased her concerns, if only slightly.
The Portkey, a garish statue of a red-capped gnome, stood ready. Just as Ethan prepared to step forward, a commotion erupted at the entrance of the Great Hall. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger burst in, breathless and disheveled, like they'd sprinted across the castle.
They shoved a lumpy, bomb-shaped package into Ethan's arms. "Th-this is some food we packed," Hermione gasped, still catching her breath. "We heard the challenge can last for days…"
She shot a glare at Harry and Ron, elbowing them sharply. "I told you to get up earlier! We nearly missed him!"
Ron muttered under his breath, "Didn't miss him, did we?"
The trio—affectionately dubbed the Golden Trio—looked at Ethan with a mix of hope and nervousness. Their gift was humble: pies, drinks, and chocolates, all enchanted with a Warming Charm. They'd heard Draco Malfoy had gifted Ethan a vial of Felix Felicis, and Hermione had considered brewing potions for him, but Ethan's own brews—supervised by Professor Snape—had outshone anything she could offer. So, they'd poured their effort into this simple care package.
Ethan accepted the bundle, the warm, savory aroma of the food wafting up to him. "Thank you," he said, his smile genuine as he tucked the package into his pouch, charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm. "I'll enjoy these."
He joined the second group of contestants, placing his hand on the Portkey. Hermione clasped her hands together, whispering, "Ethan will be fine. Merlin, please…"
Harry, though worried, forced a grin and waved. Ron, ever the enthusiast, flailed his arms like a windmill, shouting, "At least thrash those Slytherins!"
Michael called out, "Ethan! Come back with first place!"
Anthony nodded vigorously in agreement.
Professor McGonagall's stern expression softened at the sight of Ethan's friends rallying behind him. With such support, surely he'd make it through.
Ethan's lips curved into a confident smile as he nodded back.
The next moment—Whoosh!
The world twisted, as though his body were being squeezed through a rubber tube. His organs seemed to shift and churn, the sensation both disorienting and exhilarating. Ethan's eyes gleamed with excitement. What a ride!
Two seconds later, with a soft pop, the world snapped back into focus. A vast, frozen tundra stretched before him, shrouded in a torrential mist that seemed to pulse with an eerie life of its own. Cedric Diggory, less graceful, landed with a thud nearby, sprawled on the ground. Ethan, however, stood steady, his balance unshaken.
In his mind, a map unfurled, a glowing red dot marking his location.
He had arrived at the outer edge of the Corrupted Great Marsh.
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