Summer holidays had arrived.
While most of their classmates were either lounging at home, touring the Continent, or (in Hermione's case) cracking open fifth-year textbooks before the Leaving fourth year had even ended), Ethan Vincent had chosen a rather more… unconventional vacation.
He, Luna Lovegood, and Rubeus Hagrid were bound for the hidden heart of the Carpathians, there to parley with the last free tribe of Giants and, if luck and brute strength allowed, secure their aid for the war everyone knew was coming.
Ethan had two private reasons for coming along.
First, simple artistic curiosity. A painter needed reference, and nothing in any textbook came close to the real thing. He intended to sketch living Giants from life—even if it meant doing it from the back of a three-headed dog the size of a cottage.
Second, and far more pressing:
[Condition Three for The Immortal's Promotion: Defeat the Avatar of Destiny!]
Voldemort had merely been the opening act. Whatever pawn Fate picked next would be worse. Ethan had no intention of facing that thing empty-handed.
Which brought him to the old legend: the Progenitor Giant who once split the earth with a single sword-stroke, reached into the planet's molten core, and stole the Seed of Fire itself. From that stolen ember sprang the first Giants—stone given breath, rock given rage.
"If even a fragment of that original fire still exists," Ethan murmured, "it would make exquisite pigment."
He sat astride Cerberus's broad middle back, one hand idly buried in coarse black fur, the other tracing the jagged granite ridge that soared past them. Half a metre to the left, the mountain simply ended—an abyss swallowed by white mist. Every footfall of the hellhound sent pebbles skittering over the edge, the sound fading long before they hit anything solid.
Luna leaned comfortably against his shoulder, silver-blonde hair whipping in the wind, staring down the drop as though calculating how many Wrackspurts it might hold.
"Ethan," she said dreamily, "how do you get a Giant into a refrigerator?"
He considered. "Open the door, shove the Giant in, close the door. Three steps."
Luna's pale eyes curved in a smile. "Wrong. One step is enough."
"Really?"
"Yes. You cast the Freezing Charm on the Giant. Then he is the refrigerator."
Ethan snapped his fingers, grin sharp. "Brilliant."
Up ahead, Hagrid—red-faced, sweating, clinging to the lead-rope of a very unimpressed Thestral-cross—stumbled and almost pitched himself into the void.
He whipped round, beard bristling. "Will you two stop it? Some of us are tryin' not ter die of sugar shock up here!"
All the way from the foothills he had endured their whispered jokes, shared smiles, and the occasional entirely unnecessary hand-squeeze. The lonely half-Giant's heart couldn't take much more.
Hagrid (internally): Professor Dumbledore, I'm puttin' in fer hazard pay. And therapy.
He had rather hoped to bring Madame Maxime—someone who actually understood Giant blood. Instead Dumbledore had sent Ethan: brilliant, terrifying, and currently treating a diplomatic mission like a particularly scenic date.
"An' remember," Hagrid panted, "no magic once we're there! Giants can't stand it. Makes 'em think we're showin' off."
Ethan made a soft, noncommittal noise and flipped another parchment-thin page of the book balanced on his knee: Ancient Magic: Fragmentary Scroll of Gravity.
Don't use magic. Fine. Just don't get caught.
He traced a rune in the air with one finger; a faint ripple of black-violet light coiled between his knuckles, then vanished.
Hagrid didn't notice. He was too busy praying the path wouldn't narrow any further.
At last the ground levelled into a broad, wind-scoured plateau. Enormous boulders lay scattered like a god's forgotten toys. Between them lounged the Giants themselves—sixteen, maybe twenty feet tall, skin like weathered granite, clothed in crudely stitched hides and rusted sheets of metal scavenged from Muggle tanks.
The moment the wind carried their scent, heads turned.
"Smells like food," one rumbled, licking yellow tusks.
"Fresh meat walkin' right in," another laughed, voice shaking loose stones from the cliffs.
Hagrid swallowed, stepped forward with the massive gift crate balanced on one shoulder, and bellowed in his best diplomatic roar:
"I come on behalf o' Albus Dumbledore ter speak with yer Chieftain!"
The Giants blinked.
"Dumb-le…dor?" one repeated slowly, as though tasting something unpleasant. "Never heard of him."
"Who cares?" another snorted. "Dinner just arrived."
They began to close in, clubs the size of tree trunks rising.
Hagrid's nerve cracked. He had rehearsed speeches, gift-giving etiquette, even a few phrases in Gigantish. He had not rehearsed being eaten on sight.
Then every Giant froze.
Terror—raw, animal terror—flooded their brutal faces. They stumbled backward, nearly tripping over each other.
Hagrid blinked. "Eh?"
He followed their stares.
Six lantern-bright eyes glared over his shoulder. Cerberus had risen to full height, three slavering heads lowered, saliva hissing where it struck stone. Each fang was longer than a man's forearm.
One of the younger Giants whimpered.
Ethan slid down from Cerberus's back with lazy grace, boots crunching on gravel. He was laughing—quiet, delighted, and somehow worse than any scream.
"My pet," he said pleasantly, patting the central head. The hellhound rumbled like an earthquake and licked his palm with a tongue the size of a carpet.
The Giants gaped at the slender boy who barely reached their knees.
Then they exploded into guttural, booming laughter.
"This little thing claims that monster?!"
"He's not even a mouthful!"
"Pretty little snack thinks he's scary!"
Ethan's smile never wavered. Between two fingers he twirled a card that drank the sunlight—edges flickering with distorted shadow.
Hagrid's stomach dropped. "Ethan—"
A rasping voice cut across the plateau.
"Enough."
An older Giant limped forward, beard braided with finger-bones, eyes like chipped flint.
"You said Dumbledore sent you?" he asked Hagrid.
The elder stared at Ethan a long moment, something wary and ancient moving behind his gaze.
"I knew that name once," he muttered. "Didn't think I'd hear it again before I died. Come. The Chief will see you."
He turned, gesturing with one massive hand.
"Bring your beast, little wizard. Golgomath doesn't like surprises."
Ethan's eyes glittered sapphire and winter-cold.
"Oh," he said softly, "I think he'll manage."
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