Hermione's aura shimmered faintly as she concentrated, a small indigo glow flickering around her fingertips as she maintained Ken. Ethan watched from his chair in the Room of Requirement, arms folded.
"Better," he said calmly. "Hold your Ken. Keep the flow even—don't let it leak. Through repetition and constant depletion of your aura, it should increase in amount over time. It's already much stronger than when you first started."
Hermione's brow furrowed, but the glow steadied. She exhaled, shaping her aura into a thin veil covering her entire body. Maintaining Ken for several minutes until she could no longer handle the exertion, she gasped, sitting back into an armchair Ethan conjured behind her.
"Good. With just another month of training like this and polishing your aura techniques, you should be ready to start working on your Nen ability, or Hatsu as it is otherwise known."
"I'll work hard. I want to be ready in two weeks," Hermione said in determination.
Ethan smiled faintly. "Efficient, precise, and a little obsessive. Conjurer to the core."
Hermione blushed at his teasing, though pride shone in her eyes.
Tonight, however, they weren't alone.
Harry sat nearby, shifting in his chair, watching the exchange with a mix of awe and hesitation. "So this is what you've been doing in here? This… aura thing?"
Yes, today Harry was here; Hermione, anxious about the start of the tournament, had begged Ethan to include Harry in their lessons. Ethan could tell she was torn between helping her friend and losing her alone time with him, so he proposed once a week Harry could join a lesson with them, and this week that was today.
Hermione turned toward him, her expression bright. "Yes! It's called Nen, Harry. Ethan awakened mine last week. It's incredible—like unlocking a whole new branch of magic that isn't magic. It strengthens you, protects you, and lets you create abilities unique to yourself."
Harry frowned. "And you think I need this?"
Ethan leaned forward, his voice firm but calm. "You don't just need it—you can't afford not to learn it. With the Triwizard Tournament hanging over you, Nen could be the difference between life and death. Though until I say, I hope you can keep this between you, me, and Hermione. That's why I had her tutoring you on Occlumency before today. Nen is your guys' trump card, and we don't want this power getting into the wrong hands."
Harry swallowed hard, his eyes flicking from Ethan to Hermione. Finally, he nodded. "All right, then. I'll keep this between us. Now please… show me. I want to be strong."
Ethan stood, placing two fingers against Harry's forehead. "Then close your eyes. Breathe. I'll force open your aura nodes. It'll feel… intense."
Harry obeyed. A sudden rush of invisible pressure hit him like a tidal wave. His breath caught, his chest tightened as warmth surged through his body. Then it erupted outward—his aura spilling uncontrollably in every direction. The air shimmered faintly, whipping Hermione's hair as though in a sudden wind.
Harry's eyes flew open. "Bloody hell—what is this?!"
"Your aura," Ethan explained evenly. "Focus. Imagine it wrapping around you like a cloak. Don't let it leak away. That's Ten—the first step."
Harry grit his teeth, trembling with the effort. Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady and encouraging. "It's like holding a spell steady, Harry. Only instead of a wand, it's your whole body. You can do this."
Slowly, shakily, the wild torrent of Harry's aura began to draw inward. It wrapped around him unevenly at first, then more smoothly as his concentration deepened.
Ethan gave a small nod. "Good. You've awakened your aura. That alone puts you ahead of most witches and wizards. But now… let's see what kind of Nen user you are."
He produced a glass of water with a single leaf floating inside, setting it on the table. "The water divination test. Flow your aura into the glass and watch carefully."
Harry raised his hand, sweat beading his brow as he focused. Aura spilled into the glass, and for a moment nothing happened. Then the water rippled, swelling unnaturally, the volume increasing inside the glass. The leaf bobbed higher on the surface, carried upward by the rising level.
Hermione gasped. "It increased—the water actually increased!"
Ethan smiled knowingly. "Enhancer. Straightforward, direct, and powerful. It suits you perfectly. Enhancers are naturals at strengthening themselves and pushing through impossible odds."
Harry lowered his hand, panting, staring at the glass in disbelief. "So this is me? I'm an Enhancer?"
"Yes," Ethan said firmly. "Strong, resilient, unyielding. The kind of person who survives when no one else should. You've always had that quality, Harry. Nen just makes it clearer."
For the first time since his name came out of the Goblet, Harry felt a flicker of hope stir in his chest. He wasn't helpless. He wasn't walking blind into the Tournament anymore.
Hermione smiled warmly at him. "See? You're not alone in this, Harry. We'll train together."
Harry nodded, determination sparking behind his tired eyes. "All right, then. Teach me everything."
Ethan smirked faintly. "That's the spirit. We'll start slow, but by the time the Tournament begins—you'll be more than ready."
The Great Hall had been cleared of tables, enchanted banners swaying from the rafters as students crowded in. A ring had been marked out on the stone floor, glowing faintly with containment wards.
Ethan stood in the center, his cloak hanging loose, arms folded. His voice cut through the chatter.
"One, you do not talk about Dueling Club. Two, you do NOT talk about Dueling Club. Three, if a fighter yells 'stop!', goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over. Four, only two people to a fight. Five, one fight at a time, fellas. Six, no shirts, no shoes. Seven, fights will go on as long as they have to. Eight, if this is your first night at Fight Club 'cough' I mean Dueling Club, you have to fight."
Looking at him in fear, the students—initially excited—were now speaking in hushed whispers. One student shakily raised his hand; looking over, Ethan could see it was Neville Longbottom. "Mr. Cross, are you being for real?" he stuttered out.
Giving him a serious look, Ethan began to laugh. "No, I was just messing with you all—ahaha! Anyways, moving on."
With all the students looking at him with deadpan expressions, he began.
"Before we get to spellwork, I want to address something I've seen far too often: wizards without wands fight like children. Flailing, slapping, grabbing hair. It's embarrassing."
A ripple of laughter and mutters swept through the hall, but Ethan's gaze silenced it.
"Your wand is a tool, not your soul. If you lose it—and many of you will, in a real fight—you need to know how to survive until you get it back."
With a flick of his hand, a training dummy appeared. Ethan walked over, rolled his shoulders, then snapped forward. In three sharp movements he disarmed, struck, and floored the dummy with clean martial precision. The crack of impact echoed in the hall.
"This is what you need to learn," Ethan said firmly. "Discipline. Awareness. Control. If you can't defend yourself without magic, then your magic won't save you either."
The students leaned forward, some intrigued, some skeptical. Even the Slytherins were watching closely now.
"Now," Ethan continued, "who's willing to demonstrate with me?"
For a moment, silence. Then Fleur Delacour stepped out from the crowd, every motion graceful and deliberate.
"I will," she said, her French accent smooth and confident.
Gasps and whispers erupted instantly. Fleur, the Veela, going against the professor? Everyone knew how her allure bent men to distraction. Surely Ethan would falter.
They faced each other in the ring. Fleur let her aura rise subtly, the Veela charm flowing like a tide. Boys in the crowd shifted uneasily, some blinking rapidly, others losing focus entirely.
But Ethan? He didn't even flinch. His eyes stayed sharp, locked on hers.
Fleur's lips curved in a faint smirk. "Most men… they stumble."
"Maybe I'm not like most men," Ethan said coolly.
They circled. Fleur moved first, swift and aggressive, aiming a sharp strike at his shoulder. Ethan deflected with ease, countering smoothly. She pressed harder, grace turning into speed, but every blow she tried was answered—precise parries, calculated redirections—until with one fluid motion Ethan swept her feet from under her.
Fleur hit the ground, her hair tumbling around her face. Ethan extended a hand, offering to help her up.
She took it, her cheeks faintly pink as the students erupted in cheers and whispers.
"Lesson one," Ethan said, raising his voice for the crowd. "Your body is as much a weapon as your wand. Learn to use it, or you'll always be at a disadvantage."
After the Club
When the crowd finally dispersed, Fleur lingered by the doorway. Ethan noticed, turning toward her.
"You stayed behind," he said casually.
Fleur crossed her arms, her face carefully composed, but her eyes sharp. "You are… different. Other men, they fall to my charm. But you… you ignored it, like it was nothing."
Ethan smirked lightly. "Maybe I just have higher standards."
Her cheeks flushed again, and she snapped her gaze away with a sharp little huff. "Hmph. You are insufferable." After a pause, softer: "But… perhaps you could give me some private lessons. Advice. Nothing official, of course."
Leaning against the wall, Ethan's grin widened. "Private lessons, huh? Sounds a lot like a date."
Her head whipped back toward him, eyes narrowing. "Do not misunderstand! I only want to… improve my chances in the Tournament."
"Of course," Ethan said smoothly, eyes gleaming with amusement. "When and where?"
She hesitated, then muttered, "Tomorrow evening. The courtyard. Do not be late."
Turning sharply, she strode away, silver hair swaying behind her.
Ethan chuckled under his breath. "Private lessons… I'll make sure she enjoys every second."
Later that night.
Far from the castle, in the solitude of her family's estate, Liliana Zabini sat at a candlelit desk. Shadows danced against the high stone walls, and the faint rustle of owls in the distance was the only sound besides the scratch of her quill hesitating above parchment.
"I shouldn't write him again," she whispered to herself. "I promised the last time would be the last…"
Her hand trembled. The parchment in front of her had been blank for hours, yet her mind couldn't stop circling back to him. Ethan Cross.
It wasn't his wealth—her family had seen plenty of that. It wasn't his looks—handsome men had come and gone, leaving scars on her trust. No, what haunted her was something deeper.
"When everyone whispered about me… when the rumors spread like poison," she murmured, voice quivering, "he didn't look away. He didn't treat me like some cursed ornament."
Her throat tightened as memories rose. That night, at his party, when she'd been certain no one would dare approach her. Then he had. Ethan hadn't cared about the stares or the whispers. He had asked her to dance. In front of everyone.
And when they spoke afterward, he hadn't looked at her like a prize to be won, or like a woman tainted by tragedy. He had talked to her. Really talked—about life, about ambition, about hope. As if she wasn't a Zabini wrapped in scandal, but simply Liliana.
"I've been hurt before," she admitted quietly, tears blurring her vision. "Every man who's touched my life… taken from me. Maybe I'm cursed. Maybe I bring ruin to anyone close to me." Her grip on the quill tightened, the ink threatening to blot. "If I care for him… if I let myself believe again… will I destroy him too?"
She leaned back, shaking her head, heart twisting. "Better to spare him. Better to be alone than risk it."
Liliana reached for the parchment to tear it in half—
—but just then, a flutter of wings filled the room. An owl swooped through the open window, a sealed envelope tied neatly to its leg.
Her heart stopped. She untied the letter, fingers trembling, and broke the seal. Inside was Ethan's handwriting, bold and steady.
Liliana,
I enjoyed our last meeting more than you probably realize. I'd like to see you again—not at some party, not with eyes watching us, just the two of us. No expectations, no masks. Dinner. A chance to actually know each other.
– Ethan Cross
The quill fell from her hand, clattering against the desk. Warmth bloomed in her chest, flooding her with a mix of relief and giddy disbelief. He had written first. He wanted her—despite everything.
Clutching the letter to her chest, she whispered, "So it wasn't just me."
Quickly, she seized fresh parchment, her tears now of joy rather than fear. Her reply was simple but heartfelt, accepting his invitation without hesitation. For once, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't cursed.
When she blew out the candle and slipped into bed, a smile lingered on her lips. For the first time in years, she slept blissfully.
Back at the Castle.
Ethan unfolded her reply later that night. His lips curved into a knowing smirk as he read her acceptance.
"Perfect," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. Then, with quiet amusement, he thought to himself: I guess Blaise Zabini might have to start calling me Step-Dad instead of Professor Cross soon.
Putting the letter away, Ethan knew his night was not yet over. He traveled to the Great Hall to investigate the Goblet; he had to get to the bottom of who exactly was pulling the strings in the dark.
The Great Hall was silent, its torches burning low. The Goblet of Fire flickered faintly, blue flames casting eerie shadows. Ethan stood before it; he could clearly see the signs of magical tampering—if one knew where to look, such things became obvious—magical whispers of the Confundus lingering in the air. He already knew the truth—Voldemort's plan was simple: Harry must win.
The question was how the boy was being guided.
That was why Ethan had ordered the house-elves to shadow Harry in secret. The key to discovering the perpetrator, he knew, was to monitor Harry. In the books, Crouch and Voldemort wanted Harry to win the competition, and in order to ensure Harry won they wouldn't just sit on the sidelines and hope he would win. No—whoever conveniently "helped" Harry at just the right moment, the person who just so happened to leak something useful about the tournament—that would be the link Ethan would look into.
Ethan knew it was just a matter of time, and when someone made their move, that would be when Ethan would find out who was behind it all. As Ethan was standing there, he could hear bells ringing when a Patronus in the form of a phoenix appeared before him. Stopping in front of Ethan, Dumbledore's somber and serious voice rang out: "Mr. Cross, all teachers are being summoned to the Headmaster's Office."
Knowing that this had not happened in the plot, Ethan—confused—sped off to the Headmaster's chamber. Upon arrival he noted Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mad-Eye Moody; Albus, Fudge, and the majority of the teaching staff were present.
"Now that the heads of houses and most of the teachers are all in attendance we can begin, I'm afraid I have some disturbing news… just a few minutes ago Barty Crouch Sr. was discovered dead in the woods. Hagrid's hound stumbled upon the body during one of his routine trips into the woods."
Hagrid stood in the corner sobbing. "Old Fang didn' deserve ta see anythin' like that. A sensitive soul he is."
"Riiight." I thought.
"As of yet, we are not positive of the circumstances of his death. In the meantime, Minister Fudge has dispatched a minimum Auror presence on the grounds, for the students' safety." Dumbledore finished.
Fudge, muttering in the corner about bad press and articles, piped up, "Oh yes! Students' safety is indeed the top priority!"
Dumbledore continued, "Until the circumstances of this matter are clear, I suggest vigilance. That is all for now—you are all dismissed."
Once the room cleared out, I waited just at the bottom of the stairs. Noticing Tonks finally leaving with Mad-Eye, I approached her. "Good to see you again, Dora, though the circumstances could have been better. Do you guys know anything yet?"
Looking at Moody for a moment, she answered me quietly, "We don't know too much yet, but from what we saw it looks like the Killing Curse. Crouch's expression looked surprised too; whoever killed him definitely gave him a shock."
"Tonks! We have work to do—say goodbye to your boyfriend and let's go. Constant vigilance!" Moody snapped.
"Gotta go, Ethan. I'll talk to you later." Giving me a look of reluctance, they walked off.
It seemed things would be different this year. I needed to keep my eyes peeled and make sure the people I cared for were safe. Time to beef up Hermione and the rest; if anyone came after those I cared about, they and their house would face torture and an explosion for good measure…