"A perfect painting—this will surely bring more joy and laughter into the world."
Ethan stroked the canvas with slow, reverent fingers. Pale fingertips, flecked with crimson paint like extracted pomegranate seeds, trailed over the surface.
He didn't bother with hesitation. He wanted to test the painting's effect at once.
Where to find "cursed power"? Wasn't one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes—Slytherin's locket—still intact? Ethan produced the trembling silver locket, its surface catching the light like polished mercury. He smiled, savoring it.
"Stop hiding. Your time is up."
"Mwahahaha—"
As if it had a sense of danger, the locket quivered. A thick black mist erupted from it and swallowed Ethan whole.
Blood-red sky, ink-black earth. Rolling smoke rose from scorched ground like living sorrow. In the center of that sky, like an eye at the storm's center, floated a cobalt-blue orb. It watched the world below with a calm that felt catastrophic—dominant, controlling.
Ethan stared into the vision conjured by the black mist and instinctively perceived the eye as a reflection of himself. A genuine hunger stirred within him: the intoxicating suggestion of absolute mastery.
A hoarse voice rasped from the fog, coaxing: "Wear me. Open me. I will grant you supreme power."
Ethan lingered over the illusion, silent and lost in it. The voice grew triumphant. "Yes—wear me! You will have everything you desire. You will command the entire world!!"
"—But my ideal isn't to control the entire world."
A clean, lucid voice cut through. Ethan turned his head, unmoved in the least. Confusion, pure and genuine, softened his expression. "Why would you assume my ideal is to destroy the world? I clearly mean to bring it great love and radiance!"
Praise the radiance, indeed.
Ethan narrowed his eyes and spread his arms in melodramatic ecstasy. The locket inside the illusion faltered. Great love? Radiance? The locket's contempt was almost audible—had it misread its host?
Memories and thoughts should have instructed the illusion to display the strongest feelings in the heart. But the locket didn't get another chance.
On the canvas, the two-headed wolf shuddered; its maw gaped, and the locket's dark energy poured toward it as if drawn. The black wolf devoured the mist.
"No—impossible!" the locket trembled. Lord Voldemort's lingering soul shrieked in terror. This was ancient, consolidated Dark magic—how could it be swallowed like a trifle?
The wisp of a soul struggled in vain. It weakened as it was absorbed. "What kind of—" it managed to gasp. "I am master of the world—"
The last of its power was siphoned away. The locket fell silent—but paradoxically brighter than before.
Ethan shook his head, amused. "That only lasted five seconds. What a weakling." He almost laughed at the thought: Why shouldn't he become this Dark Lord? No, stop—how could someone as luminous and righteous as he be tempted? It must be Voldemort's corruption at work!
Righteous indignation flushed his features. The canvas's black two-headed wolf licked its spectral lips; its eyes still closed, but a clear, slow breath now pulsed from it.
"The Sleeping Wolf awakening progress: 30%."
Ethan arched an eyebrow. "Even Lord Voldemort's lingering soul—comparable in effect to the One Ring—only added less than half a bar. The energy required to awaken one of these is huge." He sighed theatrically. "Old Ethan can't keep raising little darlings at home forever."
"But I don't feel the aftereffects of my original [Wolf's Speech] spell," he added, inspecting the perfectly intact locket. Energy had been conserved. Normally, [Wolf's Speech] drained the curse into the caster, which came with a backlash. Now the curse had been consumed by a wolf of Dementor-essence and pure dark energy—of the same origin—so there was no rebound.
"Very good." Ethan tucked the locket away. "Tomorrow's a full moon. Perfect—I'll use it to extract Professor Lupin's werewolf bloodline and boost progress." He smiled with mock tenderness. "Professor Lupin—surely you'll want to contribute greatly to the next Goblin war, won't you? Heh heh."
A sudden cry cut him off. A fiery phoenix burst through the stonework and dove toward him, dropping a letter that fluttered to his head.
"Your first request—the alchemical techniques used during the Goblin Rebellion—have been compiled. Come to the Headmaster's office tomorrow."
"Headmaster Albus Dumbledore"
"P.S. It's late. This old man must sleep—"
"Goblin alchemy techniques! Hooray!" Ethan crowed, ignoring the postscript. He snapped the envelope shut, cast a gleeful glance at the phoenix, and said, "Little phoenix—take me to the Headmaster's office."
The bird tilted its head. "You inherently evil brat, stay away."
Ethan smirked. "I know you sneak into the Forbidden Forest at night with my Death Bird—"
"Chirp, chirp, chirp!" the phoenix objected, indignant. It tossed its crest higher and flared its tail feathers as if someone had trodden on them. Then, as if deciding it wouldn't be swayed, it gripped Ethan and launched into the air, carrying him toward the exit.
How dare he threaten a noble phoenix—despicable human! The bird flew for the door, feathers blazing.
—Principal's office.
Dumbledore, finally done with the day's work, had on his purple dressing gown and was ready for sleep. He smiled at the neat stack of documents on his desk. Whatever Ethan wanted with Goblin records, it would be interesting—and likely chaotic.
"With Ethan around, things feel both simple and complicated," he sighed. "We can't leave everything to him." His face fell. "Why is Lord Voldemort never truly gone? That's the crux." He yawned. "I'm old. I need rest. I wonder what expression Ethan will have when he sees these files tomorrow."
"!!!"
A crash like a cannon blast shattered the quiet—the door was blown open.
Enemy attack?! Dumbledore startled upright, wand raised—only to find Ethan at the door, framed like some triumphant general returning from battle. Behind him, the sound of exaggerated, cartoonish "thump, thump, thump" seemed to follow.
"Old Lamp, I'm here, as promised." Ethan announced. "Where's the goods?"
Dumbledore's expression went from alarm to exasperation. It would have been better if it had been an actual attack. Around the room, the portraits grumbled; the Headmaster lowered his wand.
"Didn't I tell you to come tomorrow? It's past midnight—curfew." His gaze sharpened. "Where did you come from?"
"Can't see, can't see," Ethan chirped, unbothered. A painter's work is not a rule-breaker—of course not. He darted to the desk, breathed in the scent of the documents as if they were fine wine, and declared with solemnity, "Hmm—this batch is very pure."
"F... you brat—do you have optic nerves in your nose?" Dumbledore muttered, rubbing his forehead. Ethan had always been avant-garde—sometimes dangerously so.
Since he was already there, Dumbledore resigned himself to staying up. The portraits drifted back to sleep. For a while, only the rustle of pages turned filled the office.
When Ethan had finished skimming, Dumbledore spoke precisely: "Besides general weapons, Goblin fortress alchemy focused on two things: Living Metal and the All-Seeing Eye. Living Metal lets fortresses self-repair; the All-Seeing Eye watches 360 degrees from the top of the fortress and directs defenses. But if the fortress is a body, those are the limbs. The true heart is the [Forge], buried deep beneath the fortress."
Ethan's eyes sharpened. The Forge—exactly the place Mr. Black's notes hinted at. A mighty rune, smelted from deep-mine ore through a special circuit, hidden under the fortress.
Dumbledore shook his head. "The wizards of the time didn't know the core lay beneath the fortress. They attacked from the outside and paid dearly. If we could destroy the Forge first, the living fortress and the All-Seeing Eye would be crippled. It would make taking the place far easier."
Ethan nodded, plans already unfurling in his head. He looked up at Dumbledore, mischief and calculation mingling in his gaze.
"Old Lamp—do you think we could conquer the fortress without a single death, if we'd had this knowledge beforehand?"
Dumbledore paused, considering. Ethan wanted strategy—wanted to play general in a sandbox of history. He answered gravely: "Extremely difficult. You'd need to infiltrate, map the route, reach and destroy the Forge without triggering a catastrophe—if you're careless, it will blow and reduce everything to dust. You'd also need simultaneous chaos outside, trained methods to blunt Goblin defenses, and above all—luck. Lots and lots of luck."
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