"Hmph!"
The students around them froze, stunned by the sheer audacity of the move. A ripple of shocked whispers swept through the crowd.
What a shame.
Just as their lips were about to meet, Ethan—ever quick on his feet—tilted his head at the last possible second.
It was nothing more than a graze, the lightest touch, like a dragonfly skimming the surface of a pond, brushing only the faint down on his cheek.
It tickled.
For the first time, the gentle, ever-present smile that Ethan wore like armor vanished from his face, replaced by genuine, wide-eyed surprise. Something almost human flickered across his expression.
"You…" He blinked, then let out a low, delighted laugh. "You put poison on your lips? Clever girl. Very clever."
Fleur's triumphant smirk collapsed in an instant.
"You—!"
Her teeth ground together; words failed her. All she could do was stamp one delicate foot in frustration.
"Hmph! Just you wait," she hissed, cheeks flaming. "Next time you won't get away so easily!"
With that coquettish little threat hanging in the air, Fleur whipped her silvery-blonde hair over her shoulder and stormed toward the Beauxbatons carriage without a backward glance. Pride radiated off her like heat from a furnace.
Ethan scratched his cheek, exhaling through a crooked grin.
"…What a fiery one."
The moment the words left his mouth, the air behind him seemed to sharpen. An icy prickle raced up his spine. Someone was staring daggers into the back of his skull.
He turned—and met Luna Lovegood's pale blue eyes. She was smiling, serene as ever, but for some reason a glowing red "DANGER" sign seemed to hover above her head in Ethan's imagination.
At the same time, the Durmstrang students—now leaderless—boarded their ship in near silence and departed across the black lake.
Viktor Krum stood at the prow, wind whipping his fur cloak, staring at the castle as it shrank into the distance. His face was grim.
"Aren't you going to say goodbye to Ethan?" one of his classmates asked.
Krum shook his head, voice gravelly. "I look like a beaten dog right now. I couldn't face him."
He hadn't fulfilled his dream of defeating Ethan Vincent. Worse—he hadn't even managed to surpass Ethan's lieutenants.
"I ran from a fight for the sake of some hollow 'future victory.' Pathetic."
In his mind's eye he saw again the pillar of blinding light that had split the sky the moment he regained consciousness after the Third Task.
Even without dueling Ethan directly, Krum already knew the outcome.
"I'd lose," he muttered. "Badly."
His classmate stared, astonished. Viktor Krum—Quidditch prodigy, pride of Durmstrang—admitting defeat before the contest had even properly begun? Unthinkable.
Yet the more Krum thought about it, the firmer his gaze became.
If Ethan Vincent was the one leading Hogwarts, then he, Viktor, would lead Durmstrang.
He would prepare them into something stronger—strong enough to face whatever storm was coming for the wizarding world.
Leading the weak… He'd never considered it before. Ethan had taught him a harsh but valuable lesson.
Krum turned to his dejected schoolmates, drew a steadying breath, and barked an order that cracked like a whip across the deck.
Fourth year seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye.
Once again the scarlet steam engine huffed its way toward King's Cross Station.
Inside one of the compartments, Luna—humming dreamily—cast her eighteenth Scouring Charm on Ethan's face that afternoon. The future Dark Lord was one more charm away from begging for death.
The Weasley twins were in high spirits, taking bets on who the next "cursed" Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would be.
Harry, having finally checkmated his opponent for the first time all year, leaned back with a triumphant sigh—only to discover in abject horror that the wizard chess set Ethan had gifted him possessed a sadistic second phase.
A fresh round of torment began.
For these students—still blissfully innocent despite everything—the greatest joy in life remained the simple promise of summer holidays.
But at the Ministry of Magic, the mood was anything but relaxed.
Minister's Office
Rufus Scrimgeour glared down at the photographs fanned across his desk, brows knitted so tightly they threatened to merge.
Every picture featured the same two figures: the masked "Mr. Lamp" and the smiling, golden-haired Ethan Vincent.
A knock.
The door opened. Two wizards entered.
One was the newly promoted Head of the Auror Office, Connie Rosier—bright-eyed, almost bouncy.
The other was broad, coarse-featured, and dressed far too expensively for the perpetual scowl on his face.
Connie opened her mouth to greet the Minister, caught sight of the photographs, and promptly forgot what she was going to say.
"Those are of Ethan Vincent!" she blurted, clasping her hands together. "I've got a whole stack of those at home too!"
She giggled like a schoolgirl.
The office went very quiet.
Connie: QAQ
The second visitor stepped forward from the shadows with oily grace and bowed. "Corban Yaxley, at your service, Minister."
His small, shrewd eyes flicked around the room, already calculating.
Scrimgeour nodded curtly. "Alastor Moody will retire from the Defense post at the end of this term. I intended to place one of our own at Hogwarts—proper oversight, you understand. Dumbledore refused."
Connie blinked, still lost.
Yaxley's lips curled into something that wanted to be a smile but felt more like a snake testing the air. "Curious. Dumbledore always finds someone at the last minute. And that particular job is… well, we all know the rumors. No sane witch or wizard wants it anymore."
"Exactly," Scrimgeour growled. "Which makes his evasiveness all the more suspicious. When I pressed him on who the successor would be, he danced around the question."
The Minister shoved the photographs forward. "Put it together with everything that's happened this year, and the pattern is unmistakable. Dumbledore, this 'Mr. Lamp,' and Ethan Vincent are working together."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Connie squeaked, "There must be some mistake! Ethan is… he's good and gentle and—well—he's harmless!"
Everyone stared at her.
Scrimgeour pinched the bridge of his nose. "Second year: Chamber of Secrets opened. This year: the Goblet of Fire tampered with, Triwizard Tournament nearly ends in disaster, and who benefits every time 'Mr. Lamp' appears? Ethan Vincent. His popularity soars after every attack."
Connie opened her mouth—closed it again.
"More than that," Scrimgeour continued, voice low, "magic that twisted, that creatively evil—do you honestly believe two wizards capable of it just happened to appear in Britain at the same time?"
Dead silence.
Yaxley broke it, voice silky. "You believe Vincent is Mr. Lamp's apprentice. And Dumbledore is shielding them both."
Scrimgeour gave a single, tired nod. "Absurd, I know. But every other explanation collapses under scrutiny."
Connie raised a hesitant hand. "Er… I actually thought maybe they were the same person? Ageing Potion, mask… it'd be simple enough…"
Scrimgeour barked a humorless laugh. "Rosier, please. The boy's barely sixteen. You think a child could look the world in the eye and calmly threaten its annihilation?"
Connie wilted. "…Right."
An Auror in the back of the room raised a trembling hand. "Sir, my mother's suddenly very ill—I think I need to resign effective immediately—"
"Get out," Scrimgeour snapped.
The man bolted, robes flapping.
Scrimgeour sagged, looking a decade older than when he'd taken office. He muttered under his breath, "Fudge, I hope Ethan curses your socks off."
Then, steeling himself: "I'm almost certain the new Defense professor will be Mr. Lamp himself in disguise. Rosier, Yaxley—I'm assigning you both to Hogwarts next term. Watch the new professor. Watch Ethan Vincent. Find me proof."
Connie's stomach dropped. She clenched her fists until her nails bit crescents into her palms, then forced a nod.
If she had to be there, she would prove Ethan's innocence—no matter what.
Yaxley allowed himself the faintest smirk once they were dismissed and walking down the corridor.
"Ethan Vincent…" he whispered, voice syrupy with malice. "A real Death Eater is coming for you."
Beneath his left sleeve, the Dark Mark throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Corban Yaxley—senior Ministry official, secretly one of Lord Voldemort's most devoted servants—smiled a terrible smile.
"The Dark Lord's time is near," he breathed. "And I will clear every obstacle from his path…"
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