Chapter 251: Ethan: I Will Cure Werewolves. Who Supports, Who Opposes?
Professor Lupin watched the scene with a faint smile. Warmth rose against the pallor and weariness of his face. At the same time, loneliness welled up despite himself. This kind of reunion would never be his.
Even with Ethan's help, letting him go months without transforming, there would always be the risk of losing control. He would not gamble. "This is already better than I ever dared imagine," Lupin murmured, his patched cuff twisting in his fingers.
Just then, his gaze met Ethan's. The black-haired boy who had worked "miracles" gave him a look that said very clearly, Be at ease.
A prickle of dread rose in Lupin's chest.
The next second, Ethan's handsome face filled the still-hanging water screens and synchronized across the wizarding world.
"Guh," many witches and wizards stiffened and stared as if he were about to announce an attack. Inwardly, they cried, What now? When will this torment end?
"Ladies and gentlemen, innovation and challenge delight me." The voice boomed like a great bell through every alley and square of British wizardry.
Ethan tapped the Sound-Carrying Flower at his collar and stood behind a high Hogwarts window. His gaze swept over the dense tangle of the Forbidden Forest and the dark, broad Black Lake, stretching to the far distance. A spark of fire lit in his usually tranquil cobalt eyes.
"Eagles hunt truth. As a Ravenclaw, it is an honor to unveil before you the truth of the Sirius Black case."
Professor Flitwick nearly levitated on the spot, eyes spilling over as he whispered, "That is my student."
"This grand, carefully orchestrated judgment—I hope you enjoyed the show," Ethan added, chuckling.
Flitwick's smile froze. He felt the weight of the looks that asked, "You taught him that, too?" He grimaced apologetically and slid to the back.
Skill is learned later. Temperament is born. That part was not his fault.
"On this occasion, I would also like to make a declaration." Lupin's unease spiked. Ethan threw up his arm, eyes shining. "On the night of the full moon at the end of this term, I invite you all to Hogwarts to witness an unprecedented miracle. I am going to cure, on the spot, a witch or wizard afflicted by the werewolf curse."
A witch or wizard afflicted by the werewolf curse: Lupin: "?"
His vision went dark. Words like live, audience, witness a miracle were enough to make a man used to hiding want to pass out. Not all test subjects had to be him. Ethan shot him a quick wink that meant, "Do not be too moved; it is on me."
The subject was him.
He had no plans to become the brightest star of the werewolf world. Besides, curing lycanthropy completely was surely impossible.
He turned quickly toward Dumbledore for help and found only a kindly squint that said, "The old man's time has passed; the stage is yours now." Lupin suddenly understood that Ethan's continued enrollment through the third year owed a great deal to the Headmaster's indulgence.
Ethan's steady, confident voice rolled through nearly every street, through walls, into countless ears. People stood dumbstruck, staring at the poised black-haired boy on the water screen, unwilling to believe what they heard.
In a pub, glasses fell from hands. Ale dribbled from open mouths unnoticed.
Down a shadowed alley, a filthy pack of men looked up. Cold, feral slit pupils locked on the water screen. One of them, close to three meters tall and shaggy even off the full moon—a man more beast than human—Fenrir Greyback, laughed low and harsh.
"Another arrogant fool. Cure werewolves? Brains must be rotten. Hahaha." He sneered. "We do not need a cure. Our blood is our unique, greatest weapon."
Some werewolves grinned and nodded. Others traded glances and slipped back into the dark.
At the Ministry, a successor had dropped from the sky into the Minister's chair. Rufus Scrimgeour moved at the center of a crowd.
"He says he can cure werewolves. Mr. Scrimgeour, what's your view on this?" someone asked, shocked.
Scrimgeour considered. His face looked forged of iron, his eyes sharp as a hawk's as they fixed on the boy's face above.
"If he fails, it is only natural. He is young and headstrong," he said at last. "If he succeeds, then we must reevaluate his worth and bring him to our side."
Only an idiot tries to clip an eagle's wings out of fear of taming it. Cooperation, leverage, mastery—that is the proper way to recruit the gifted.
He clenched his fist. His eyes gleamed, hungry. And why had that fool Fudge been so afraid of Ethan anyway? He was a lad with a taste for eldritch art, not the head of some dark cabal.
The next morning, the Daily Prophet sold out as expected. The front page blared: The Ministry's Biggest Scandal in a Century. Hero or Fraud? Step Into Ethan Vincent and the Truth of History. Page two read: Shocking. Minister Cornelius Fudge Resigns in Disgrace. A Certain Auror and a Secret You Cannot Ignore. Page three: Ethan Vincent Speaks Again. Cure Werewolves Completely? An Arrogant Fantasy.
Ten papers per witch and wizard. It was the juiciest news since a Dark Lord fell to a baby.
Owls winged from abroad to buy them by the dozen. To the Prophet's tooth-gnashing fury, The Quibbler kept pace in sales for a simple reason: the man at the center, Ethan Vincent, had granted The Quibbler an exclusive interview, complete with his latest piece. How could the Prophet compete? The Quibbler had read the wind.
At Hogwarts, the Great Hall roared. Newspapers lay strewn over every house table. What else could they discuss but yesterday's grand judgment that shook the wizarding world?
Even the High Arbiter staircase, the Roller Coaster to the Land of Light that had torn through the Hall to the tower, remained exactly as it was. People came to gawk and pay their respects. Food had already been arranged in a neat line on the floor for offerings.
At the center of it all, Ethan Vincent sat oddly apart, calm as a stone. He buttered his bread in quiet that melted hearts up and down the girls' benches.
"Ahem, Ethan," Michael ventured for those too nervous to step closer. "How are you going to cure a werewolf?"
On the staff dais, Professor Snape pricked up his ears, eyes sliding toward Ethan. Even as a Potions Master, he could only refine Wolfsbane. What would a third-year do?
Ethan smiled a little. "The key is Neville Longbottom."
According to that green thumb, the crop of moonflower seeds entrusted to him—the essential component for a cure to lycanthropy—would be ripe very soon.