For most students, this had been an absolutely legendary year.
They'd gotten front-row seats to the Triwizard Tournament (mostly as spectators, sure, but still).
They'd watched Lord Voldemort return in all his horrific glory, yet somehow it had felt more like the world's most terrifying fireworks display than an actual war.
And best of all: final exams had been cancelled.
"This has genuinely been the best year of my life," Ron declared through a mouthful of roast chicken, grease shining on his chin.
Ginny shot him a withering look. "You're disgusting."
Ron only shrugged. When Ethan Vincent—the undisputed king of Hogwarts—was in the same year as you, mere mortal boys didn't stand a chance with girls. He'd made peace with it.
The Leaving Feast was, as always, absurdly lavish. In honor of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the house-elves had rolled out French pastries and hearty German sausages alongside the usual British fare.
According to Fred and George, Hogwarts food had never been "purely British" anyway, so no one was complaining.
Except, perhaps, the Durmstrang students.
They sat clustered in a grim knot at the end of their bench, built like a defensive line of particularly sullen wardrobe trunks. Losing the Triwizard Cup was bad enough. Losing their headmaster—who had vanished the instant his Dark Mark burned—was worse.
"I hope someone finds Karkaroff and puts him out of his misery," a Slytherin drawled loudly enough for half the Hall to hear. "Or, y'know, he could always throw himself at Ethan's feet. Might live longer that way."
A few seats at the Slytherin table remained conspicuously empty tonight. No one mentioned the missing students. No one needed to. Even Goyle had quietly disappeared after the graveyard, and no one had asked questions.
Malfoy sniffed. "Letting any of them walk away alive was mercy on Ethan's part."
Privately, though, cold sweat prickled down his spine. The Malfoy family had nearly been among the ones who didn't walk away.
Thank Merlin his father had seen which way the wind was blowing and pledged everything to Ethan months ago.
Mental note, Malfoy thought. Send another vault's worth of galleons to Vincent Manor before the week is out. Can't have the Farleys out-spending us—Gemma already bought a bloody house in his village.
His pale eyes swept the table. Every pure-blood heir was thinking the exact same thing.
Pure-blood politics in one image: whoever groveled fastest and most expensively, won.
The Daily Prophet the next morning screamed the news in its usual hysterical capitals.
[BARTY CROUCH RESIGNS AMID HEALTH CONCERNS—YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNS CONFIRMED—MINISTRY VOWS ACTION]
Ever since Rita Skeeter had earned herself a lifetime ban from St. Mungo's (and a permanent spot on Ethan's blacklist), the Prophet had been forced to rely on a new star reporter: Mike McArthur. His write-up was still sensational, but at least it wasn't complete fiction anymore.
Thanks to the new Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, Voldemort's resurrection was being treated as fact rather than conspiracy theory. The accompanying photo of the writhing, newborn Dark Lord had sent half the wizarding world into fits.
Hermione scanned the article, brow furrowed. "They dedicate three full pages to Voldemort and only six lines to the fact that Ethan obliterated him in single combat."
Harry shrugged. "Maybe they're trying to keep people scared and vigilant?"
Hermione made a small, skeptical noise and kept reading. Something felt… off. The tone wasn't fawning enough. Where were the sweeping declarations of Ethan as the savior of the age? Where were the seventeen glamour shots?
She closed the paper with a snap. "Not worth the parchment it's printed on."
From her bag she pulled the latest issue of The Quibbler—now in its third printing because every witch under thirty had bought at least two copies. Ethan's face took up the entire cover: windswept black hair, faint smirk, wand tip glowing like a falling star. Hermione's cheeks went pink the instant she looked at it.
Ginny leaned over and sighed dreamily. "I've got mine in a glass case above my bed."
"Same," Cho Chang whispered from two seats down, clutching a scrapbook to her chest like it was the last Horcrux. "Future collectors' item. Definitely."
At the staff table, Dumbledore rose to give his traditional end-of-term speech. The old wizard's eyes twinkled brighter than usual.
"We have faced trials this year," he began, "yet we have emerged stronger, wiser, and—most importantly—united."
A massive silver-and-blue Triwizard Trophy now gleamed proudly in his office, right beside a brand-new living portrait that had made Aberforth weep into his goat's beard all night.
"Therefore," Dumbledore continued, "fifty points to each of our champions! And an additional one hundred points each to Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, who faced unimaginable evil with unbroken courage!"
The Great Hall exploded. Ruby and emerald beads surged upward in their hourglasses.
Then Dumbledore's gaze settled on the Ravenclaw table.
"And of course, we must honor the young man who delivered the decisive blow against Lord Voldemort himself—Mr. Ethan Vincent!"
Every head swiveled. Ethan looked up from his plate, expression cool and unreadable, as if lethal curses were just another Tuesday.
Ron muttered, "We're literally sitting right next to him and somehow he still manages to be the main character."
Everyone braced for the inevitable avalanche of points that would seal Ravenclaw's seventh consecutive House Cup.
Instead, Dumbledore smiled like a man about to pull off the prank of the century.
"At Mr. Vincent's personal request," he announced, "this year, the House Cup belongs to all four Houses."
He flicked his wand.
The enchanted ceiling rippled. Banners unfurled in a riot of scarlet, bronze, yellow, and green. The serpents, badgers, eagles, and lions of the four Houses roared, chirped, and trumpeted in perfect, majestic unison.
Gasps echoed through the Hall.
"Blimey," someone whispered. "That's… never happened before."
Dumbledore's voice carried a note of gentle steel. "A darkness is rising once more. In the face of that darkness, Hogwarts must stand as one. Gryffindor's courage, Hufflepuff's loyalty, Ravenclaw's wisdom, Slytherin's cunning—every virtue will be needed."
He looked directly at the Slytherin table. "And I have every faith that, when the time comes, students from every House will follow the same leader into battle."
Malfoy was already half out of his seat, fist clenched, eyes blazing with fanatic devotion.
Ethan lifted one hand in a small, almost lazy salute.
The Hall detonated into cheers.
Outside, beneath the moonlight, the Beauxbatons carriage waited, powder-blue and pulled by a dozen winged Abraxans the size of elephants.
Fleur Delacour stood on the bottom step, fingers tight around Ethan's hand as though she might never let go.
"I will return," she said fiercely, violet eyes shining. "And next time you will not treat me like a little girl."
Ethan's smirk curved, slow and dangerous and devastatingly handsome. "I look forward to being proven wrong."
Fleur huffed, glanced once at Luna Lovegood hovering a discreet distance away, then made her decision.
She surged forward on tiptoe and kissed him—hard, deliberate, and entirely unapologetic—right on the mouth.
Somewhere behind them, a dozen cameras went off at once.
When she pulled back, her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed, but her smile was pure triumph.
"That," she whispered, "is how a Veela says goodbye."
Then she swept up the steps into the carriage, silver hair flashing like moonlight on water.
The Abraxans beat their wings. The carriage rose into the starry sky.
Ethan touched two fingers to his mouth, eyes glittering with dark amusement.
Luna drifted closer, head tilted. "You've got a little lipstick," she said dreamily. "It's very fetching."
Ethan chuckled—the low, velvet sound that made knees buckle from three tables away.
"Something tells me fourth year was just the warm-up."
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