Mr. Lamp?
Barty Crouch Jr.'s eyes trembled behind the slits of his mask.
In the rare moments when the Imperius Curse loosened its grip, he had heard his father hiss that name like a curse. Last year that same Mr. Lamp had detonated half of Hogwarts while Albus Dumbledore was sipping tea in the Great Hall. The Ministry, terrified of panic, had buried the story under twelve layers of Memory Charms and gag orders. And now the legend himself stood in the moonlit parlor, moonlight sliding off a mask so white it looked carved from starlight.
Barty's knuckles whitened around his wand. His tongue flicked across cracked lips with a dry hiss.
A voice, frail as parchment, drifted from the sagging sofa.
"How did you find this place?" Lord Voldemort rasped. "How did you know we would come?"
Moonlight answered first—then the man.
"Because everything is a book I've already read," Mr. Lamp said, the words rolling out like aged Firewhisky, dark and velvet. "Twice."
The cat on his lap yawned, pink tongue curling, then stretched as though the Dark Lord were nothing more than a draft.
Barty's temper snapped. "Know everything? You dare mock—"
"Silence, Barty." The rebuke cracked like a whip. Barty flinched as if Crucioed. His master—his master—had never used that tone on him. Not once.
Cheeks burning, he bowed and shuffled back, resentment pooling behind his eyes like venom. He glared at the masked intruder the way a spurned wife glares at the prettier mistress.
Ethan felt the stare and, hidden behind porcelain, allowed himself a tiny smirk. Even through a mask? Merlin's pants, good looks are exhausting.
Lord Voldemort eased upright, vertebrae creaking. "A Seer, then. A rare gift." His voice dropped to silk. "And your price?"
Ethan lifted one shoulder, lazy as the cat. "Rivers of blood."
Voldemort waited. Ethan waited longer.
"I mean the long game," the Dark Lord pressed. "Empires drowned scarlet, centuries of it."
"Still rivers of blood."
Voldemort's lipless mouth twitched—something perilously close to awe. "Khorne take me, a purer soul than mine."
Little Voldy catches on quick, Ethan thought, dipping his chin in lazy assent. The Necronomicon did thirst, after all, and who better to fill the cup than a congregation of eager martyrs?
"Meow." The cat launched from his lap, a white streak vanishing through the shattered window.
Barty snorted. "If it's slaughter you want, the village is crawling with Muggles. One curse and—"
Ethan tilted his head, genuinely curious. "You let ants groom your wand?"
Barty blinked. "What?"
"An elephant doesn't catalogue every insect it crushes. It simply walks. Muggles die of their own clumsiness—plagues, trains, bad curry. Killing them myself would be… bookkeeping."
Silence crashed over the room like cold water.
Barty's spine prickled. That voice wasn't cruel; it was indifferent, the way mountains are indifferent to scree. A creature who had forgotten Muggles were people at all.
On the sofa, Lord Voldemort let out a hiss of delight. "Yes… yes!" His skeletal arms spread as if embracing a sunrise. "At last—another architect of perfect night!"
Perfect night? Ethan rolled his eyes so hard the mask creaked. Buddy, I'm daylight wearing a bad costume.
Voldemort leaned forward, fever-bright. "Join me, and the world will bleed until the rivers choke on it."
Ethan propped his chin on one fist. "Go on. I'm listening."
"I want," Voldemort whispered, nails gouging the upholstery, "Ethan Vincent dead."
Ethan—Mr. Lamp, masked and magnificent—choked on air. A cough, two, three. "Sorry, throat tickle. You want who dead?"
"Ethan Vincent!" Spittle flecked the Dark Lord's chin. "That smug, joke-cracking, twice-murdering Hufflepuff-faced—"
Twice? Ethan mentally counted. Okay, fair.
He leaned in, voice dripping picnic cheer. "Details, details. I love a good murder plot."
Something flickered across Voldemort's face—unease, perhaps, at how eagerly the masked man discussed his own death. He shook it off.
"Phase one," he hissed. "You and Barty will take Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody alive."
Nagini slithered between them, tongue tasting the air, orange eyes reflecting a tall silhouette in white.
12 Grimmauld Place
Harry shot upright, scar searing white-hot. Sweat plastered his pajamas to his back.
Not the Dursleys. Not Privet Drive. Sirius's ancestral house, creaking and alive, smelled of toast and dog.
The door exploded inward.
"Harry!" Sirius skidded to the bedside, wand glowing. "Scar again?"
Harry clutched his forehead, panting. "Worse. Dream. Mr. Lamp—he's going to—"
Sirius's face went grim. "Tell me everything."
Harry swallowed. "He's going to kill Ethan Vincent."
Sirius barked a joyless laugh. "Well, happy birthday to me. The most dangerous man in Britain just put a price on our favorite walking war crime."
Harry's scar throbbed harder. "Sirius… Ethan's my friend."
Sirius's eyes softened. He ruffled Harry's hair, the gesture centuries old. "Then we'd better warn the idiot before he tells one joke too many."