"Very good."
Ethan snapped his notebook shut with a satisfied nod. His cobalt eyes gleamed as they fixed on Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.
"You've given me splendid inspiration," he said, voice low and velvet-rough. "Don't worry. Even though you're… indisposed, I'll make certain your legacy endures."
Moody choked on air. The boy's words tasted like wormwood and old grudges.
Watching that fever-bright grin, the ex-Auror felt ice crawl up his spine. This little monster wouldn't actually drag that madness into Hogwarts, would he?
No. Impossible. Dumbledore hadn't keeled over yet; evil couldn't just waltz in wearing a Ravenclaw tie.
Reassured by his own logic, Moody relaxed—deciding the abnormal Dark wizard was simply talking rot.
A day before the Quidditch World Cup kicked off, Ethan—currently rolling Moody's stolen magical eye between his fingers like a marble—received a letter from Barty Crouch Jr.
The parchment looked half-murdered, ink gouged so deep it scarred the back:
I've slipped into Mad-Eye's skin and done my best to hush things up—tone down the theatrics next time!
As ordered, we've rounded up every Dark wizard with a grudge and a wand. They're itching to paint the Cup red.
A manic parade of HAHAHAHAHs followed, each letter shrieking louder than the last, as if Crouch were screaming through the page.
"How wicked," Ethan murmured, tapping the tabletop with one pale finger. His face settled into solemn lines.
"Something wrong?" Luna asked. She drifted closer, moonlight eyes skimming the letter.
"Nothing at all." He folded the note away, considered, then sighed theatrically. "I just realised three whole years have passed and I still haven't painted a proper large-scale catastrophe. Shameful."
Hellhounds, Death Birds, the newborn Gluttonous Deer, the Rat King—every one of them still followed ancient, painfully polite rules.
Even the five-headed Snake of Ba only induced sleep, never death.
"I've grown soft," Ethan declared, clenching a fist so hard his knuckles cracked. "Hogwarts turned me into a sentimental fool. I forgot how vicious Dark wizards truly are."
His eyes blazed—brilliant, terrible, delighted.
"Everyone else is drowning in pretty daydreams. They need a hammer between the eyes to see the darkness rising."
One hundred thousand witches and wizards rumoured to attend the Cup. Perfect canvas.
As the mysterious "Mr. Lamp," he would remind the world that Lord Voldemort's shadow still stretched long.
When chaos peaked, the old order would shatter—and he would write the new one in screaming colour.
Sirius Black, rotting in Azkaban for twelve years on a lie. His own farcical trial. A tide of righteous fury surged behind Ethan's ribs.
Even if it meant Azkaban for himself, this revolution would be worth it.
"When the truth finally breaks," he whispered, brushing away an imaginary tear, "the world will weep."
Luna tilted her head. "Oh yes. They'll definitely cry."
Dark wizards were commonplace.
Cosmic-octopus summoning events? Considerably rarer.
Ethan tapped the magical eye against his lips. "Sight is a doorway. A stable gaze equals a stable portal…"
He flipped open his sketchbook.
"Combine Pupil of the Door with the old Portal charm, graft Moody's tracking spell atop both, then aim the finished 'Telescope' at The Universe in the Wardrobe—that swirling starfield painted with real nebula dust…"
What, exactly, would crawl through an open window to the void?
The thought alone sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.
Blue flame flickered in his irises. The quill flew.
Luna watched him sink into that private abyss, then returned to her own book. Pages whispered. Quill scratched. Wind slipped through the open window, stirring gold strands and lifting parchment corners like gentle hands.
Left sofa: moonlit girl. Right desk: beautiful demon.
The moment felt timeless.
Opening day
No early-bird tickets required when you lived in Ottery St Catchpole. The whole village simply strolled to the hilltop together.
When the Weasley–Potter convoy finally staggered up, red-faced and wheezing, they found Ethan twirling a silver dagger through his fingers, sunlight strobing off the blade.
"You're late," he greeted, beaming like a toothpaste advert.
Ron and Harry's families: visible sweating
"Ethan!" Hermione bounded over, dragging Ginny by the wrist. "Long time no see! My parents took me to Queerditch Marsh—did you know the original Snitch was a living bird called a Golden Snidget—"
He let her ramble, eyes crinkling kindly while he flashed Ginny a slow, sharpening smile that turned her freckles scarlet.
Only when Hermione wound down, mortified by her own enthusiasm, did Ethan answer.
"My summer was… productive. I visited a gathering of remarkably gifted individuals and brought comfort to a lonely old man. He rewarded me with a rare magical artefact." He twirled the dagger again; it vanished up his sleeve.
Hermione's brow arched. "That sounds… suspiciously like a primary-school 'good deed' report."
Ethan's grin widened.
Behind her, the Weasley clan radiated tension thick enough to chew. Fred and George—normally human fireworks—stood mute and sulky.
Ron sidled close. "Mum torched their entire summer inventory. Big row. They're gutted."
George kicked the dirt. "Years of work—poof!"
Fred: "There goes the joke shop fund."
They both stared at Ethan like drowning men spotting a rope.
Ethan blinked twice, innocent as fresh snow. "Didn't I mention? Because your ancestors discovered moonpetal flower, thirty percent of all profits legally belong to the Weasley bloodline."
Snape's royalties alone could choke a dragon.
The twins froze. Ron's jaw dropped. Somewhere, Galleons rained on imaginary heads.
Arthur arrived last, oblivious. "What's all this? No fighting, now—"
George swallowed hard. "We… we can't possibly accept—"
Ethan cut him off, morning light gilding his cheekbones. "The Weasley family tree is littered with heroes. Take what's yours."
The twins stared, problem evaporating like mist.
"Oh, Ethan—!" They lunged.
He sidestepped neatly; the bear hug whistled past.
"And," he added, smile curving sharp, "after tonight, Mrs Weasley will have far bigger things to worry about than prank merchandise."
Just staying alive, for instance.
Fred and George exchanged uneasy glances.
Sirius—still traumatised from a full semester as Ethan's personal lab rat—shivered hard enough to rattle his bones. He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"On second thoughts, maybe we skip the match—"
"Too late!" Arthur chirped. "Merlin's beard, we're cutting it fine—"
Ethan raised one finger. "Portal."
"AAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
In Ethan Vincent's world, no one was ever late.
And no one, absolutely no one, got to leave early.
They spilled out beside the Diggorys, grabbed the boot Portkey, and plunged into a roaring sea of green-and-scarlet banners.
Laughter, cheers, broomsticks overhead—pure carnival.
Ethan lifted his gaze to the horizon.
A single dark cloud crawled across the sky, slow and deliberate.
His lips curved.
Let the games begin.
--
Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my pa-treon:
pat reon .c-om/windkaze