A deep, resonant voice echoed through the Great Hall, reverberating in every student's ears.
"Students, we must brave the wind and rain—and forge ahead! We will protect this school from the shadows of evil!"
All eyes turned to Headmaster Dumbledore, his figure a striking silhouette against the enchanted ceiling. Though his hair and beard were as white as snow, he stood tall and unyielding, like a mountain shielding them from the darkness beyond. To the students, he was a bastion of strength, the very reason Hogwarts remained a sanctuary in a world fraught with peril.
A wave of reassurance washed over them.
Yet, at the faculty table, several professors wore grim expressions. Fifty years ago, the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and a student had lost their life. Professor McGonagall raised a hand, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes shadowed with memory. Professor Lockhart, meanwhile, muttered under his breath, "Lamp's grand speeches can't change the fact that danger's already breached these walls. What safety is left?"
Professor Snape's thoughts lingered on the five petrified students lying in the Hospital Wing, his scowl deepening.
Below the stage, Ethan Vincent leaned back in his seat, his cobalt-blue eyes fixed on Dumbledore's commanding presence. "He really does carry the weight of a Dark Lord who held court for two terms," Ethan murmured, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "That kind of aura could crush you just by standing there."
Dumbledore's magic seemed to surge before Ethan's eyes, a boundless river of power that sent shivers racing across his skin. His heart thudded in his chest. No wonder Tom Riddle kept his head down when he was a student here, Ethan thought. Dumbledore's presence alone would've kept him in check. Poor noseless Tom—bet he sulked about it for years.
He shook his head, chuckling darkly. Why am I sympathizing with a bald, red-eyed creep? Get it together, Ethan.
But then a pang of frustration hit him. Dumbledore, what exactly are you protecting? First year had been chaotic enough, but now, in their second year, the Chamber of Secrets was open again—and not because of Ethan's antics. Even Salazar Slytherin's penchant for enchanted snakes and secret lairs had slipped past the headmaster's notice. By the time the Goblet of Fire rolled around, someone would die. And then? Dumbledore himself would fall from the Astronomy Tower, and Hogwarts would plunge into its darkest hour, overrun by Death Eaters.
"No, old man," Ethan muttered, clenching his fists. "Your soft touch won't cut it."
If Hogwarts was to survive, its students needed to be forged in fire, not coddled. Ethan's eyes glinted with a dangerous mix of mischief and resolve. Only someone as generous as me can take on the noble task of toughening them up.
With a sudden flourish, Ethan rose from his seat, raising a hand to draw every eye in the Great Hall. Dumbledore's heart skipped a beat, his gentle smile faltering as he braced himself.
"Is there something you'd like to say, Mr. Vincent?" Dumbledore asked, his tone as calm as a still lake, though his eyes twinkled with curiosity—and a hint of wariness.
Ethan surveyed the room, his fingers brushing the "gift box" Draco Malfoy had slipped him earlier—a box Ethan knew was less a gift and more a bribe. With a theatrical pause, he began, his voice carrying a magnetic blend of charm and menace.
"As President of the Enlightenment Society and a proud member of this school, I believe it's my duty to lead by example. To contribute to Hogwarts' strength and glory!" He tapped the box, his grin widening. "I propose sponsoring training matches for the entire school. Through challenges designed by my society, we'll hone our skills, learn from one another, and grow stronger together."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow reached every corner of the hall. "The facilities, the props, even the prizes—all funded by me, on behalf of the Enlightenment Society. First place? One hundred Galleons. Second and third will be rewarded handsomely, too."
The Great Hall erupted in cheers. If the students had braced for one of Ethan's infamous pranks—perhaps a hex disguised as a handshake or a charm that turned their robes to jelly—they were floored by this. One hundred Galleons? Ethan Vincent, the boy whose dark humor and unsettling "art" projects (like that cursed tapestry in the Hidden Room) sent shivers down spines, was suddenly a saint. His image transformed in an instant, glowing with a radiance that rivaled the floating candles above.
Fred and George Weasley leapt to their feet, eyes gleaming like they'd just spotted a vault full of gold. "We propose society members compete, too!" Fred shouted. "And share the prize money!"
George nodded fervently. "The Weasley family's textbook fund is counting on you, boss! We'll be your loyal minions—footrests, even!"
The hall buzzed with excitement, students showering Ethan with praise.
"Look at him, thinking of the school like that!"
"We misjudged him. So what if his jokes are twisted and his spells borderline sadistic? He's generous!"
"One hundred Galleons? Ethan, I'll be your owl for life!"
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat stunned. He hadn't expected his "gift" to Ethan—a strategic move to curry favor—to be repurposed so boldly. Prefect Marcus Flint glanced at Draco, a wry smile breaking across his face. "I was wrong about you, Malfoy," he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "I thought you were just kissing up to Vincent. But you've got vision. Slytherin's part of Hogwarts, too, and you're proving it."
Draco's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and pride swelling in his chest. For once, the admiration directed at him felt… genuine. He glanced at Ethan, the dark-haired boy radiating confidence, and felt a spark of something new. Not just ambition, not just self-interest, but a desire to follow someone who could command a room like that.
[You have transmitted the light of "Light" to the crowd! Allowing them to feel your will!] ["Breaking Out of the Shell" progress increased by 5%] [As students train and compete with your society members, the spread of Light will continuously increase]
Ethan basked in the adulation, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk. I'm too kind for my own good, he thought. Giving these little witches and wizards a chance to toughen up before the darkness comes. The Sorting Hat was dead wrong—I belong in Hufflepuff with this level of selflessness.
He cleared his throat, his voice dropping to a grave, commanding tone. "Storms will come again. Last night's terror may only be the beginning."
The Great Hall fell silent, every ear straining to catch his words. Ethan's expression shifted, his head bowing as if weighed by a heavy memory. He clutched his robes, his knuckles whitening, his face contorted in mock anguish. "Oh, the horrors I faced last night," he murmured, just loud enough to be heard.
Hermione gasped, covering her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. She couldn't fathom what terrors Ethan had endured in the shadows of Herpo the Foul's Abandoned Mansion, where whispers of ancient curses still lingered.
In the hush, Ethan's voice rose again, steady but laced with intensity. "Do you know? Tomatoes were once feared as the devil's fruit. Poisonous herbs and healing plants were once indistinguishable. Even magic itself was branded a dark art."
The students exchanged puzzled glances. Tomatoes? Herbs? What was he getting at? But they hung on his every word, captivated.
"Fear is human," Ethan continued, his voice softening. "It's natural. But!" He snapped his head up, his cobalt eyes blazing with defiance. "We must carry our fear, push through it, and charge forward!"
His hand shot up, fingers splaying wide before slowly curling into a fist. "Until we make fear itself our strength."
The hall was silent for a heartbeat. Then—clap, clap. A single pair of hands began, and like wildfire, applause roared through the Great Hall. Colin Creevey, eyes wide with hero-worship, snapped photos frantically, his camera flashing like a miniature lightning storm. Even the Slytherins joined in, their claps reluctant but undeniable.
At the faculty table, Professor Flitwick bounced on his chair, beaming. "That's my student!" he squeaked. Snape raised an eyebrow, gave a faint hum, and—almost imperceptibly—tapped his fingers together in approval.
Dumbledore, still on the podium, stared at the scene, his expression a mix of astonishment and pride. The applause swelled like a tempest, and he felt a pang of realization. He had underestimated his students. The reopening of the Chamber of Secrets, a crisis that could have broken them, had instead become a crucible. Ethan had seized it, turning fear into resolve, rallying the school to face the darkness head-on.
And yet… a flicker of unease stirred in Dumbledore's chest. Something about Ethan's performance felt too perfect, too calculated, like a spider spinning a web to draw in its prey. An illusion, surely, he told himself, dismissing the thought.
Ethan bowed theatrically and sank back into his seat, hands reaching out to shake his from every direction. Padma Patil, her dark eyes sparkling, slipped a delicate gold bangle from her wrist and tossed it onto Ethan's plate with a soft clink, a gesture of admiration. Cho Chang, a third-year Ravenclaw, leaned forward, her cheeks flushed as she clapped, caught in the moment's fervor.
Then a paper crane fluttered onto her table. She unfolded it, and her face paled. [Tonight at 8:30 PM, come to the Round Table Council meeting room!] The handwriting was jagged, the final exclamation mark tearing through the paper. Someone was impatient—and it wasn't hard to guess who.
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