I had been busy in the days leading up to the ball, filling in gaps in knowledge, tinkering with the idea of spreading magic, and starting the preparations for the Animagus ritual with a mandrake leaf stuck to the roof of my mouth with a spell and the moth chrysalis in my pocket. I would need to carry these until the next full moon, when I would be able to finalize the ritual and gain access to my animal form. It sort of reminded me of those "what animal are you" quizzes people would take—except magic would actually show you precisely what your real animal form was, definitively. With how lazy I am, I'll probably get the sloth, I joked to myself.
The Cross Manor woke to music.
By noon, Biddy had the staff—some house-elves I had purchased to work under him—snapping linens into place and levitating crystal chandeliers into a constellation above the ballroom. Sunlight came in through tall arched windows, catching on floating lanterns that would glow like captive stars after dark. House-elves whisked through with trays of fire-roasted pheasant, butter-braised turnips, and a dozen little amuse-bouches that smelled like heaven and nostalgia. They were a great investment; I might just take all of them with me and put them in my Essence Home.
I stood on the balcony, looking down over the polished marble floor. It felt like a chessboard I'd set myself—every guest, every corridor, every conversation already mapped in my head. Tonight wasn't just a party. It was a declaration: the Cross family was back.
"Master Ethan," Biddy piped up, popping into existence at my elbow. "Guests begin to arrive in thirty minutes. Shall Biddy activate the orchestra charms?"
"Let them warm up," I said. "And tell the kitchen to add the citrus glaze to the roast salmon. The Greengrasses like it that way."
Biddy beamed and vanished with a crack.
I adjusted my tailored robes—a clean, modern cut in midnight black with obsidian trim, my wand holstered in a wrist sheath—and went to greet my first arrivals.
The Ball
The ballroom doors opened to a tide of silk and old gold as the guests began to pour in, with me greeting them as they came. I had invited damn near everyone I could think of, both high and low status. The Weasley family, the Diggory family, etc.
As all these guests were coming in, Andromeda Tonks arrived with Ted and a very pink-haired Nymphadora who hadn't decided which face to wear tonight. She spotted me, blinked twice, and settled on a heart-stopping version of herself: sharp cheekbones, mischievous grin—she was looking good with a sort of punk girl aesthetic and some tattoos; looking like a hot goth mommy, yes please.
"Ethan Cross," Andromeda said, warm and wry. "You throw a proper ball for someone 'just reintegrating'."
"Go big or go home," I said, kissing her knuckles. "Welcome back to a room that should never have excluded you."
Tonks' hair flickered bubblegum to dark violet as she elbowed her mum, who was teasing her. "Um, it's good to see you again, Ethan. I'm not sure if you remember, but we played together when we were little."
It felt a little weird knowing these memories that I had access to as part of my background power were fake, as I replied, "Of course I remember. You looked quite different back then, though—with more pink and frills." I teased as her face turned red, awkwardly rubbing her arm.
"Well, come on in. I hope you all enjoy yourselves." I laughed as I guided them in, letting them settle before the next wave hit: the Greengrasses, understated elegance incarnate. Lady Greengrass had perfected the art of a polite smile that said everything and nothing. Daphne walked at her side, cool as frost, eyes assessing the room like another arena. I caught her gaze, holding it just long enough to get an impression of her.
"Lord & Lady Greengrass, Miss Greengrass," I said. "My house is honored."
"Your reputation grows quickly, Lord Cross," Lady Greengrass replied. "We're eager to see if it's deserved."
"Do let me know by the end of the evening," I said lightly.
The Parkinsons followed—worry painted over with pearls. Pansy looked like she'd been shoved into the dress at wand-point. She wore her resentment like perfume. When I bowed, she shot me a surprised once-over and looked away too quickly, as if caught peeking. I stood there wondering what was going on with their general mood, but invited them in all the same.
And then the room changed.
Narcissa Malfoy entered alone—her husband conveniently skipping out on this gathering, probably still upset at the slight he had experienced at the Wizengamot meeting. Narcissa's gown was charmed velvet, deep blue that drank the light; a simple sapphire at her throat and nestled between her generous cleavage made the crystals of my chandeliers jealous. "Lucius is absent, unfortunately. Urgent business," she politely stated, which was convenient for both of us. I stepped forward and offered my arm.
"Lady Malfoy, welcome. I'm glad you could make it, at least."
"Lord Cross," she returned, voice soft but clear. "You were quite the figure at the Wizengamot. I was most impressed by your presence—so domineering," she said as she reached for my arm.
"Sorry if I embarrassed your husband at the meeting, but someone had to say it," I said. "I'm just glad it didn't stop you from coming."
She took my arm for a moment longer than necessary, then released it with a ghost of a smile. "You dance?"
"Only when threatened," I said. "Or bribed."
"We'll negotiate terms later."
She drifted away like perfume.
Liliana Zabini arrived alone.
Conversation dimmed around her like a candle pinched with wet fingers. She paused at the threshold—chin high, eyes steady—and for a second I saw the weight she carried and how carefully she wore it.
I walked to her, ignoring every turned back.
"Miss Zabini," I said, offering my hand. "I'm glad you came."
Her lips curved. "I nearly didn't."
"Then I would've sent a search party."
She laughed—quiet, surprised—then slipped her hand into mine. "You're either fearless or foolish, Lord Cross."
"Please just call me Ethan." I smiled at her.
"Then just call me Liliana as well."
I escorted her in, and the room began to breathe again.
The orchestra swelled into a waltz, and the dance floor filled. I made the rounds: toasts with old families, polite conversation with neutrals, calculated banter with fence-sitters. I watched who gravitated toward whom, which wands twitched when certain names were spoken, where the power gravitated when no one was looking.
Between dances, I found Tonks raiding a tray of smoked salmon like a starving pixie.
"Nice trick," I said, nodding at her hair as it hummed from violet to shimmering silver and back. "You match the chandeliers."
"Please," she said, mouth full. "You match the chandeliers. I'm just trying to outshine your ego," she said, looking at my suit.
"Impossible," I said. "But admirable."
Her grin softened. "It's good to see you again, Ethan."
"You too, Dora."
She blinked at the name, and her hair turned unexpectedly soft pink. "You remember that?"
"I remember a lot of things," I said. "Like you threatening to hex me into a ferret if I didn't share my treacle tart."
"I was five."
"And terrifying."
She snorted and elbowed me. "Save me a dance before your waiting list gets you assassinated."
"Done."
On the next turn, I offered my hand to Liliana.
She hesitated only a moment, then stepped into my arms. Up close, the melancholy I'd seen at the Wizengamot was still there—but tonight it carried something else: a fragile defiance, the decision to live in spite of being watched.
We moved. She was light and graceful, every step measured—like someone who had learned to never misstep in public.
"Do you always rescue exiles in their natural habitat?" she asked.
"Only the interesting ones."
"And the dangerous ones?"
"My favorite kind."
Her eyes warmed. "Careful, Lord Cross. People will talk."
"They already do," I said. "Let's give them better material."
By the time the waltz ended, the temperature of the room had shifted. Some of the whispers were different now.
I offered Liliana my arm for a drink, then ceded the floor as Lady Greengrass appeared with Daphne in tow, pulling her over towards me while she showed off a practiced smile. I gave Liliana an apologetic smile as I unlinked arms and walked towards them, already guessing a hint of what they wanted.
"Miss Greengrass," I said. "Would you care for a dance?"
Looking at her mother for a second before she looked back at me, she begrudgingly accepted as I pulled her towards the dance floor away from her mother. While I danced with her, I began to speak. "Sorry about your mother forcing you here—it seems you aren't enjoying yourself?"
Surprise showed itself on her face as we continued to dance.
"I'm sorry if I seem out of sorts, Mr. Cross… it's just that I have other things going on right now. My sister—she is often sick and I am usually there for her. Today, before we left, she was having an especially bad day," she replied bitterly.
"Sorry to hear of it. I have some understanding of the situation—the blood curse, yes? Pardon me if I seem nosy; it's just that the blood curse afflicting your family is a matter I have read about in the history books. It is well documented how the Minister of Magic Topher Greengrass died during his second term due to the affliction. If there is anything at all I can do, please let me know."
Her eyes flicked to the charmed ceiling, then back. "My sister… Astoria… has her good days. I want to rid her of her affliction, and every day to be one of those days… that is my goal. Even though no one has ever cured the blood curse in the past, it won't stop me."
"I don't find that dream ridiculous at all; if anything, I admire you for it. You must be dearly loved by your sister," I said softly. "If you ever need a private warded room for her to breathe easy, you can have one here. No questions asked. Also, during my travels I have learned quite a lot about Muggle genetics and healing techniques, as well as rare magics. I might be able to help myself."
Daphne's poise cracked just enough to show her relief. "Thank you."
"Also," I added, casual as I could, "I'm starting an academic fund for medical research independent of St. Mungo's politics. If an affliction exists, I want a cure found."
She stared at me. For a heartbeat, the ice was gone.
"You are much better a man than I thought, Ethan. When my parents first dragged me here to meet a pure-blood heir, I was expecting someone like Malfoy," she chuckled. "Now I know better."
"When I have time I will come by," I said. "Tell Lady Greengrass that I might be able to help Astoria, and to let me know when is a good time."
She actually smiled.
After dancing to a couple more songs, we finally broke apart, her going back to her parents.
Pansy's turn came later, cornered by her parents to come talk to me in a conversation near the orchestra. As she approached, I cut in with impeccable manners and a tray of sparkling elderflower.
"Miss Parkinson," I said, offering a glass. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
She accepted, surprised into honesty. "Is it that obvious?"
"To me it is," I said. "I'm quite skilled at reading faces."
It startled a laugh out of her. She took a sip, composed herself, and tilted her chin. "Well. You're not old."
"I'm unsure how that's related, but I try not to be."
"And you're… not terrible to look at."
"I do what I can," I said, somewhat confused—until I saw her parents watching us like hawks, and then it clicked. Oh, they want to match her with me. Not sure why a dark-aligned house wants to match their daughter to a light-aligned guy like me. Hmm. They must be desperate; with the background I gave myself, everyone knows how rich my family is. That must be it.
Looking back at Pansy, our eyes met—an honest truce in them. Behind her, her parents watched like gardeners willing a vine to climb. I ignored them, asked Pansy about Quidditch, and let her talk until she forgot to scowl, feeling more at ease. I'm not sure if I want this to go anywhere, but I'm willing to see where this goes. She's young enough to where she can change from how her parents are.
The rest of the evening unfolded in notes: a slow dance with Narcissa that was technically impeccable and politically dangerous; a spin with Tonks that nearly emptied the entire dessert table with her clumsiness before I saved it at the last minute; a second dance with Liliana that felt like lifting a veil from a portrait.
When midnight chimed, I took the floor and raised a glass.
"To old houses, new ideas, and the stubborn fact that we're all stuck on this island together," I said. "May we find better ways to share it."
The toast rippled through the room. Even the neutrals smiled.
By two in the morning, the chandeliers dimmed to a warm dusk and the last guests slipped into the Floo. I stood alone in the quiet afterward, listening to the echoes, organizing the night's gains in my head like trophies on a shelf.
Allies: more than yesterday. Enemies: the usual, now curious. Prospects: promising.
Onward.
The Quidditch World Cup
The stadium rose like a gilded colosseum out of the Irish countryside, tier upon tier of enchanted seats climbing into the clouds. Pennants blazed with emerald harps and crimson lions; the air smelled like rain, ozone, and roasted nuts. I flashed my pass and followed a lacquered attendant up the spiraling stairs to the Minister's Box—prime sightlines, prime politics.
Inside, the tableau snapped into place: Cornelius Fudge, hat too jaunty for his face, already sweating bonhomie; the Bulgarian Minister, severe and amused in deep green; Lucius Malfoy and Draco—ice-pale, immaculate, and watchful; Arthur and Molly Weasley shepherding their brood; and, tucked beside them, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.
Fudge spotted me and beamed like a lamppost. "Lord Cross! Marvelous—absolutely marvelous—to have you with us. The Cross name lends such… gravitas to our humble proceedings." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Do carve out a moment after the match, yes? There are—ah—mutually beneficial initiatives that would thrive under your… stewardship."
"Minister," I said, shaking his hand with polished warmth. "Let's enjoy the match first. Plenty of time for stewardship after the Irish set the sky on fire."
His smile hiccuped, then doubled. "Ha! Splendid, splendid."
He pivoted to the Bulgarian Minister and, in the slow, over-enunciated tone of a man who thinks volume creates comprehension, announced, "VEH-RY EX-CI-TING GAME TO-DAY, YES? IRE-LAND VS. BUL-GAR-EEE-AH! BIG BROOMS!"
I turned to the Bulgarian Minister and slipped into fluent Bulgarian: "Министър, извинете нашия паун. Той вярва, че викането е дипломатия."(Minister, forgive our peacock. He believes shouting counts as diplomacy.)
Relief cracked the man's reserve. In Bulgarian, he murmured, "Then I already prefer your company, Lord Cross. And your honesty."
We traded a few dry jabs about Fudge's hat and budget. We laughed—quietly, in Bulgarian. Fudge beamed between us, certain he was the reason.
Across the row, three pairs of eyes had latched onto me.
Trio POV (brief)
Hermione leaned in, voice hushed and bright. "He's speaking Bulgarian. Fluently. And the Minister's actually laughing. That doesn't happen."
Ron squinted. "So he speaks Bulgarian. Big deal. Probably another stuffy pure-blood who polishes his vaults for fun."
Harry's gaze didn't leave me. "He feels… strong," Harry said under his breath. "Not like some of the others. More like—" He swallowed. "Like Dumbledore. Not the same. But close."
Hermione's cheeks colored. "He can't be much older than us."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Hermione, you think every clever bloke is interesting."
"I didn't say interesting," Hermione lied. "I said… important. And—he is rather—"
Ron scowled. "Brilliant."
Back to me
I met their look and offered a friendly nod. "Ethan Cross," I said, leaning across to bridge the aisle. "Just back from Ilvermorny and a tour of magical Asia. I'll be taking the Defense Against the Dark Arts post this year."
Hermione straightened. "You're the new professor?"
"Guilty," I said, with a conspiratorial smile. "Try not to hold it against me."
She fought a smile and lost. "I'll… do my best."
Harry offered his hand. "Harry."
"Hard to mistake you for anyone else," I said gently, shaking it. "Good to meet you properly."
Ron gave a curt nod. "Ron." His tone said, And now we're done.
Arthur Weasley, kind even in the eyes, leaned over. "Always nice to see fresh blood at Hogwarts," he said. "Defense could use steadiness for once."
"I intend to stick around," I said. "And to make sure my students leave my class harder to kill than when they entered."
That earned a blink from Molly and an approving huff from Mr. Weasley.
Down on the pitch, the mascots took the field in a riot of spectacle—leprechauns raining galleons that vanished at dawn, veela dancing like a weapon—before the teams streaked out to a roar that rattled the charmed glass.
Fred and George muttered amongst themselves about what they should bet whispering with Ludo Bagman.
"Call it," Fred said, appearing at my elbow with George, eyes alight. "You look like a man who knows a thing or two."
"Ireland wins the match," I said, "Krum gets the Snitch."
George whistled. "Bit of a paradox, that."
"Bit of a profit, if you know where to put it," I replied, flicking my betting slip. I'd wagered heavy through the official rings—obvious enough to be noticed, conservative enough to be legal.
Fred's grin went feral. "You're either a genius or mad."
"Both," I said.
They exchanged a glance. "Investment opportunity for a genius-madman?" George asked. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—prototype-ready, hilarity industrial-strength. We only need a benefactor with taste."
"On a whim," I said—because I could afford whimsy—"I'll cover start-up, location, and expansion. Multiple shops. Britain, then the continent, then America. You bring the chaos; I'll bring the vault."
They froze. Then exploded—quietly, because Molly. "You—are—our—favorite—person," Fred stage-whispered, shaking my hand with both of his. "We will make you proud. And occasionally deaf."
"Do both," I said, passing them a parchment with a Gringotts liaison rune. "After the match, collect the winnings with me. We'll set terms that let you play without starving."
"Sir," George said solemnly, "we will name a Skiving Snackbox after you."
"I'm not sure what that is, should I be honored or scared?" I asked.
"Both," Fred grinned.
The match erupted into midair artistry. Irish chasers wove shamrock patterns no broom should survive; Krum moved like gravity had made him a private deal. I clapped with the rest as bludgers screamed inches from heads and Quaffles bulleted through golden hoops. Every time Hermione leaned forward to track a feint, I caught Ron scowling from the corner of my eye; every time I translated a Bulgarian ref's curse under my breath, the Bulgarian Minister's shoulders shook with contained laughter.
Just as I'd called it: Ireland ran up the score, brilliant and relentless; Krum, bleeding and electric, saw an opening no one else did and went for the Snitch in a suicidal dive. He caught it. Bulgaria lost. The stadium drowned itself in sound.
Winnings collected, I signed the Weasley twins' first investment parchment on the back of a program, funneled a tidy fortune through a numbered vault, and promised them a proper sit-down within the week. Arthur invited me to their campsite to celebrate "the miracle of legitimate investors," as he put it, and I accepted.
Their tent glowed warm, charmed bigger on the inside. Molly pressed a butterbeer into my hand; Bill and Charlie swapped dragon and curse-breaking stories; Ginny pretended not to stare while definitely staring; Fred and George talked expansion like generals. Hermione thanked me for the Bulgarian translation, cheeks still a little pink. Harry watched me with that quiet, measuring calm that didn't match his years.
Outside, fireworks clawed the sky. Inside, it was easy to forget the world could sour.
It soured fast.
The first scream sliced the night. Then the second. The air outside went wrong—shouts turning, tents tearing, a drumbeat of boots. We spilled out into chaos.
Hoods. Masks. Laughter with knives in it. Muggles levitated and twisted high above the treetops, limbs askew like broken dolls. A serpentine Morsmordre flared faint and ghostly in my memory; the real one hadn't yet split the sky, but its authors were here.
"Inside!" Arthur barked to his family. "Stay together!"
"Get them under a warded tent," I told him, calm rolling down over me like a practiced cloak. "I'll thin the herd."
I stepped into the fray.
Transfiguration snapped from my wand in clean, surgical lines: the lead Death Eater's mask clanged to the ground as his wand arm transmuted to solid iron from elbow to wrist—dead weight—his curses collapsing into sparks. A second lunged; I cracked the earth under him with a twist—stone flowed up and swallowed him to the waist, sealing like poured concrete. The third I stunned through a shield, then slashed sideways with wind that sheared his ally off his feet.
A curse howled past; I smothered it in a net of conjured water and hurled the mass back as superheated steam—he shrieked and apparated with the wet crack of blistered skin. Two more popped in at my flanks. I pivoted, ripped the cobbles up into fanged vines with a barked transfiguration, and anchored them with a freezing charm; their boots locked; a flick—in each hand, their wands transfigured into molten slag that burned skin and courage. They apparated away in panic.
Three didn't make it. One leveled an Unforgivable; I answered with a compressed lance of air that hit his sternum like a battering ram. He folded, breath gone forever. Another tried to take a child hostage; lightning—shaped, not wild—jumped from my wand and knifed through his chest, dropping him where he stood. The third raised a wand over a screaming Muggle; my conjured iron spike drove him into the ground like a pinned beetle. The rest broke, scrambled, disapparated in ragged pops when it became clear this wouldn't be sport.
The Ministry arrived late, as Ministry forces do, and added noise. Panic thinned. People retched in the ditch. I stood very still and let the adrenaline uncoil.
Then the scream everyone remembers: someone, somewhere, summoned the Dark Mark.
Green skull. Serpent tongue. It burned the sky open.
Aurors whipped wands upward. Stunners went hot and wild. In the confusion, a house-elf was found with a wand—Crouch's elf, shaking, eyes rolling. Winky. Barty Crouch Sr. bellowed about shame, releasing Winky from service by handing her a tie as she sobbed as if her life was over. Barty Crouch Jr. was nowhere to be seen, likely already having escaped in the confusion.
I didn't waste time arguing. When the Ministry's focus swung to posturing, I offered Winky a position at my mansion, as I knew who had really cast the Dark Mark. Hermione nearby looked at me in admiration due to my kindness to the poor house-elf.
The Mark still burned. People still screamed.
I raised my wand and traced the old counter-sigils—rare, but not unknown—layering dispelling charms with a siphon that caught the matrix of the conjuration and unwove it strand by strand. It fought. I pulled harder. The serpent shivered, unraveled, and blew apart on a silent wind.
A dozen camera orbs caught it—the green skull fading under a single wand.
Reporters love a symbol. By morning, I'd be a headline.
By midnight's end, the Ministry had blustered itself hoarse. The Weasleys found me and pressed my hands in shaky thanks; the twins, white-faced and giddy, swore they'd make good on every galleon. Hermione's eyes were wide and bright; Ron had nothing clever to say. Harry looked up at the empty space where the Mark had been and then down at my wand, and nodded once, a sign of respect.
I apparated home as dawn greeted the horizon.
In my study, the mandrake leaf still clung to the roof of my mouth, a small, ridiculous promise of another kind of power. The moth chrysalis in my pocket pulsed faintly against my fingers.
One more night to the full moon. Then the Animagus ritual. Then Hogwarts.
I poured water, swallowed, and stared out at the paling sky.
Politics. War signs. Promises. Plans.
And soon, an animal truth, written in my bones.