After Harry's explanation, Sirius finally pieced together the whole story.
"You're telling me you dreamed that Lord Voldemort and some Mr. Lamp teamed up to kill Ethan next term?"
The name "Lord Voldemort" rolled off his tongue like a curse; Sirius's shoulders stiffened, and a flash of old hatred twisted his face.
Harry nodded hard, anxiety clawing at his chest.
Sirius exhaled. "Got it. I'll pass it to Dumbledore. You don't need to worry." He clapped Harry's shoulder, the gesture warm and steady. Then, brow furrowing, he added, "But—you're the Savior, aren't you? Why would Voldemort bother with Ethan?"
Harry went quiet. Furious memories flared behind his eyes.
"Maybe… it's because Ethan keeps using mental attacks," he muttered.
Sirius looked even more lost. "And who the hell is this 'Mr. Lamp'? I've never heard of him!"
It felt as though, while he'd been rotting in Azkaban, the world had shrugged off Harry and Voldemort and crowned a new hero and a new villain. Everything had turned alien.
Harry shrugged. "Mr. Lamp opened the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts last year and blew up half the castle. Minister Fudge buried the story to save face, so it never hit the papers."
Sirius blinked. "???"
"It's fine, don't worry!" he declared, flashing a canine grin. "This year we've got the toughest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor on the roster. No way Lamp sneaks in again."
Two days later. Deep night. A lonely hill far from any road, Mad-Eye Moody's cottage crouched beneath the moon.
"—So capturing Mad-Eye doesn't even require your presence? You'll just send your lackeys?"
Barty Crouch Jr. arched a brow, eyes fixed on the man beside him—Mr. Lamp. His tongue clicked against his teeth.
"How cocky. Mad-Eye's paranoid; his house is layered with traps inside and out."
Even he, empowered by the Dark Lord himself, felt a prickle of doubt.
"Traps everywhere… simple," Ethan said, idly spinning a finger. "If breaking in is hard, just make Mad-Eye run out on his own. All it takes is one 'little rat.'"
He flicked his wrist. A rectangular card materialized between his fingers, exhaling a faint metallic tang. Dark magic pulsed from it; Barty's gaze lingered despite himself.
Ethan continued, "Mad-Eye stays inside because he believes the house is safe. Make him feel it isn't, and he'll bolt."
Barty snorted. "Easier said than done."
Ever since this uninvited Mr. Lamp had swaggered in, every plan he and the Dark Lord had laid had unraveled. Originally, Voldemort meant to deal with Moody after the Quidditch World Cup. But Lamp had argued:
"Strike before the Cup, and if anything goes wrong the Ministry will hush it up to protect the event. That's our window."
The logic had stunned even Voldemort into silence. You seem a little too good at this.jpg
Thus the operation was born.
Barty watched Ethan with slitted eyes. He knew this capture was also his master's test. Fail, and Lamp could be cut out—clean, safe, tidy. Worst case, they'd simply pick a new rendezvous.
Ethan added, "By the way, you shouldn't come. My subordinates don't check for friendly faces—"
"Ha! Afraid I'll steal your thunder?" Barty cut in, laughing. He flourished his wand; a Disillusionment Charm rippled over him until only a sneer floated in the air. "I'll bag Mad-Eye myself and prove you're useless."
Then he vanished.
"—they really don't check," Ethan finished to the empty night. Watching footprints fade into the dark, he sighed. "So eager to admire my art?"
He lifted the fresh card, voice soft. "Go, 'Rat in the Wall.' Shatter this boring night with something beautiful."
Whoosh.
The card streaked away as light, vanishing toward the distant cottage.
Of course, their esteemed ex-Auror would be fine.
After all, I'm a kind, enthusiastic soul—forced to swallow humiliation and wear the enemy's mask just to infiltrate.
Ethan's lips curved, pleased. This summer had suddenly grown deliciously entertaining.
Inside Moody's cottage. Bedroom. On the bed.
"Grumble."
Moody's magical eye whirred, blue pupil spinning like a lighthouse with no blind spots. Others flinched from the sight; Moody knew it had saved his life more times than he could count.
Tonight would be no different.
"…Little rat's inside."
The instant the eye locked on, Moody's hand slid under the pillow, closed around his wand. He rolled off the mattress, landing in a crouch, scanning.
Creak-creak-creak-creak…
Something skittered inside the walls.
But the magical eye registered no life signs—only an object moving.
Drip—drip—
The Sneakoscope on the nightstand flared crimson, painting the creaking wall in bloodlight.
"Hmph. parlor tricks."
Moody's scarred face twisted; a chunk of nose was long gone, another trophy from a thousand battles that also proved his strength.
Wand raised, magical eye swiveling, he limped after the sound, prosthetic leg scraping the floorboards.
Creak-creak-creak…
For safety, Moody always chose isolated houses. In the dead hush, the scurrying felt deafening.
"Bombarda!"
The spell tore the wall apart. Bricks exploded outward; dust plumed.
Nothing.
The creaking paused—then resumed on the opposite wall.
"…Persistent."
A vein pulsed at Moody's temple. "Been an Auror decades. Seen everything. You think this rattles me?"
He stalked to the bathroom.
There, on the sink, stood a mirror that didn't belong.
A lady's vanity mirror, ornate frame, handle carved with swirling vines—ancient, delicate. The glass was spider-webbed, shards black as voids, as though it fractured anything it reflected.
Moody's eyes narrowed. The thing radiated wrongness. Dark artifact, no question.
Never touch out of curiosity.
Click.
He picked it up.
The instant his gaze met the broken surface, white-hot pain lanced through his eye socket—like molten iron poured straight in.
The agony snapped him awake.
—Damn it! Trap!
His good eye shrank to a pinprick; cold sweat slicked his spine.
Before he could hurl the mirror away, he saw—
In the fractured glass, on the bathroom wall behind him, countless pale arms burst through plaster, ripping space itself apart.
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