Wallace grinned from ear to ear.
But he didn't notice the looks he was getting.
The girls walking past wrinkled their noses and veered out of his way.
"Shrimp-head creep, what a disgusting grin!"
"Quick, look at Ethan—cleanse my eyes!"
Wallace thought smugly:
When students lost heart after failing Ethan's test, he would swoop in, arms wide open, and welcome them into the warm, loving Gobstones Club.
What a masterstroke of strategy!
"Hehehe~ Junior Ethan, you're still far too naïve. Club rivalries are downright filthy!"
Breakfast seemed to drag on forever that morning.
Ethan nibbled a bit of pickled herring, decided against it, and buried bacon beneath his toast instead. Nothing inventive, but safe enough.
Then someone shouted—
"Look there! Merlin!"
Was it Ron's Howler?
Ethan looked up. But no.
A flood of owls poured into the Great Hall like a living storm, feathers snowing down as students gasped.
"Oh!" Professor Lockhart leapt to his feet, face glowing smugly. "Fan mail, no doubt! They can't get enough of—"
His voice died in his throat.
Because every last owl arrowed straight toward Ethan at the Ravenclaw table.
"Heh."
Professor McGonagall chuckled quietly, hiding her smile behind her teacup.
Dozens, then hundreds of letters rained down, but before they could bury him, Ethan flicked his wand with the poise of a conductor. The mail halted midair, neatly gathering into floating stacks. Not a single letter dirtied his plate.
"Fleur Delacour. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, France. December 22, 1991."
"Fleur Delacour. January 1, 1992…"
"Fleur, April 5, 1992…"
"Fleur…? They're all from her?"
Ethan's brow rose as he skimmed them.
The dates stretched from last year's tournament right up until September's start of term. Almost one letter every day—it was practically a diary.
And Fleur spared no detail. Each letter was written on thick, snowy paper that carried a faint, refined fragrance.
So many scents layered together that the Great Hall itself seemed transformed into a blooming garden. Half the bachelors leaned forward unconsciously, breathing deep with foolish smiles.
Beside him, a soft voice spoke:
"An elegant lady, isn't she?"
Ethan turned, meeting Luna Lovegood's wide, dreamy blue eyes.
"Elegant…"
He remembered Fleur in the challenge—like a skylark, beautiful but sharp-beaked, striking mercilessly.
From this deluge of letters, he saw no elegance. If anything, it reeked of grudge-holding.
Was she still angry? Was Fleur's heart really that small?
"I don't recall elegance," Ethan admitted, "but she's strong-willed, a gifted student with remarkable power."
He lifted a letter with a lopsided grin.
"She even says she wants me to come to France for Christmas—so she can beat me up. Ha! As if I'd be foolish enough to walk into that."
Luna nodded thoughtfully, lowered her head, and stirred her stew.
For a moment, Ethan caught a flicker of determination in her usually placid eyes.
…As expected of a Ravenclaw. Already thinking about growth and improvement.
He nodded approvingly.
But then—
A fierce gust ripped through the air, scattering the letters and breaking apart the fragrant haze.
Ethan glanced up. Across the hall, Gemma Farley at the Slytherin table calmly lowered her wand.
The freed letters slapped against Ethan's head.
"Do you know, Luna?" Ethan muttered, peeling one off his forehead. "Sometimes I'd rather face a Basilisk than deal with a girl's temper."
Luna only gave him a quiet, sidelong look.
Then she drained her soup, set the bowl down with a soft clink, and smiled faintly.
"I'm going to class, Ethan. See you later."
She gathered her things quickly and left, golden hair swinging like a curtain of light behind her.
Ethan watched her retreat, blinking for two seconds.
"So studious," he murmured. "With that drive, Luna's magic will improve by leaps and bounds. I need to work harder too… starting with the renovation of Saen, the Ancient City."
Michael, sitting beside him, stared in disbelief.
This guy only thinks about himself.
Didn't he see the Gobstones Club president turning green with envy right now?
Michael sighed but then chuckled. Nobody's perfect. Ethan might look human, but every last point of his soul seemed invested in talent and intelligence. Emotional intelligence? Practically given away for free.
Across the hall at the Gryffindor table, Ron's Howler went almost unnoticed thanks to Ethan's "letter bombardment."
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, a little relieved… though it also left them feeling rather pitiful.
"Different people, different fates," Ron muttered bitterly, watching Ethan pocket stacks of letters.
The only silver lining: his new wand hadn't broken yet.
Late at night.
A figure slipped quietly into the second-floor girls' lavatory.
"Open Sesame… Open Sesame…"
Ethan pressed a snake-shaped flute to his lips, hissing toward the serpent-engraved faucet.
The sound echoed through the hollow room like wind moaning in a cave.
"Rumble—"
The sink cracked apart, stone grating as the opening widened into a pipe large enough for a person to enter.
"..."
Ethan wrinkled his nose as a reek of mold and decay rolled out.
"Look, a little wizard sneaking about in my lavatory."
A shrill voice cut through the gloom.
Cold fingers seemed to trace his spine.
"I was wondering when you'd appear, Miss Myrtle," Ethan said smoothly. "My apologies for disturbing you."
Myrtle giggled, her blurred form darting between stalls.
"I won't tell anyone. But I must tell you—I died right here. If you die, you can come back to my lavatory~"
Ethan chuckled darkly. "Then I'll have to work harder, won't I?"
Myrtle froze, unable to tell if he meant working harder to live—or to die.
Before she could decide, Ethan stepped into the pipe.
"Oh—!" Myrtle's wail echoed as tears welled in her eyes. Her "Prince Charming" hadn't even told her his name.
Ethan didn't slide like some grubby first-year.
He floated downward under magic, robes spotless as the air grew damp and icy.
He sank deeper than the dungeons, past the Black Lake itself, until the pipe finally leveled out.
"Clink."
His boots landed gracefully on a floor that crunched.
"Lumos."
Light flared.
The ground was carpeted with bones.
"Good evening, all who rest here." Ethan tipped an imaginary hat and bowed politely. "Don't mind me."
He strode forward over the skeletal remains.
The cavern loomed wide and tall, streaked with damp. Red-brown stains marred the walls like dried blood. Broken pillars jutted where stalactites had once hung, snapped by something unimaginably large.
Silent. Tomb-like.
"Hmph. Quite the luxury," Ethan muttered. "I'll need to arrange something like this for myself one day."
Not far ahead, a massive rusted iron door appeared, carved with interwoven snakes. Emeralds gleamed for eyes, shifting as though they blinked.
Ethan's hand trembled, fighting a natural, human urge to flinch.
"Open Sesame… Open Sesame…"
The flute hissed.
Stone snakes uncoiled, sliding back in sequence as if the lock itself were alive.
"Boom—"
With a groaning thud, the final door to the Chamber of Secrets shuddered open. Dust billowed.
Ethan's eyes gleamed.
(☆W☆)! Chamber of Secrets, I'm here!
But first.
He raised his wand to his own face.
"Whoosh!"
A thick strip of black cloth wound itself around his eyes.
No sense getting stared to death by a Basilisk when his [Curse Resistance] was nowhere near strong enough to survive that.
Blindfolded, Ethan stretched his arms ahead, a wicked grin twisting his lips as he crept inside.
"Hehehe… Little Basilisk, where are you? Don't be shy—come greet your guest."
From the darkness, a hiss like grinding stone stirred.
The Basilisk blinked awake.
What the hell? Has Slytherin come back to life?
"Hiss hiss— hiss hiss hiss—"
"! There you are! Come out, let's do something big together!"
"Hiss hiss… hiss hiss hiss…"
But the Basilisk didn't slither forth. It only hissed back.
Ethan froze.
...Wait.
He realized a grave problem: the flute let him speak Parseltongue, but it didn't let him understand it.
A boss couldn't just bark orders. Sometimes listening to the people mattered too.
Especially when "the people" was a Basilisk the size of a castle tower.
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