Even without the merpeople's screeching golden egg, the second task could still have an Obscurus egg.
It would be unprecedented. Ground-breaking. The kind of thing that would be whispered about for centuries.
"Oh my God, am I a genius or am I a genius?"
Ethan's eyes glittered with that particular light that made sensible people take three large steps backward.
"Every champion gets an Obscurus egg. One wrong move and boom, instant detonation right there on the lake bed—"
He honestly thought it was the coolest idea anyone had ever had.
Not only would it educate the masses about the tragically misunderstood Obscurus, it would also promote compassion for its sufferers.
(Real Obscurials didn't usually explode, but details, details.)
"Heh heh heh… no one in history, Eastern or Western, ancient or modern, has ever been this brilliant. This will literally go down in the history books."
He smirked, pleased with himself almost to the point of purring.
Yolk and white, soul and flesh.
The metaphor tickled something deep in his brain.
The kitchen suddenly erupted in shouting.
Then dead silence.
Luna still wore her usual dreamy expression, as if Ethan had just suggested adding extra sprinkles to ice cream.
Even if he one day wheeled in a pram, whipped off the blanket, and revealed baby Voldemort waving chubby fists and cooing "Goo goo ga ga," Luna would probably clap and murmur, "How wonderfully inventive."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood frozen, mouths open, trying to process whatever the hell they'd just heard.
Ron finally recovered enough to ask, "Er… what's an Obscurus?"
Hermione's eye-roll achieved low-earth orbit.
Then came a loud, wet gulp.
Everyone turned.
A dozen house-elves stared up at Ethan with huge, glistening, fried-egg eyes.
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted.
Harry felt dread coil in his stomach. "Ethan was only joking!" he blurted. "He doesn't actually want any, er, exploding soul-parasite eggs—"
Too late.
The dam broke.
"Spoon can't do it! Lulu can't do it! Baly can't do it either!"
"We is useless! So useless! We is failing the great wizard Ethan Vincent!"
"Waaaaaaaaaaah!"
With a series of panicked pops, every house-elf vanished, leaving only clattering pans and a kettle screaming like a banshee.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at the empty kitchen.
Two seconds of utter silence.
Then, in perfect unison, the same five words formed in their minds:
[As expected of Ethan!!!]
Fortunately, two elves remained.
One charged forward wielding a pot lid like a shield and a spatula like a sword.
"Harry Potter sir must leave this demon at once! Dobby will protect you!"
Dobby looked ridiculous and heroic at the same time.
Ethan tilted his head thoughtfully. "Hmm… humanoid creatures probably don't taste very nice—"
The trio tackled Dobby before he could launch his valiant suicide attack.
They also learned, to their astonishment, that Dobby was now officially employed by Hogwarts.
The only other elf who hadn't fled was curled on a crate, hugging an empty Ogden's Old Firewhisky bottle.
"Hmph… traitor… disgrace…" she hiccoughed, then passed out again.
Hermione frowned. "That's Winky. She used to belong to Mr Crouch—"
"Winky is bad elf! Winky lost her master! Winky deserves punishment!" the elf wailed, then slammed her head against the crate with a tragic bang.
Ethan completely ignored the soap opera unfolding beside him.
He picked up a boiled egg that had rolled across the floor, turning it delicately between his fingers.
"Shell, membrane, albumen, yolk… combining disparate materials to create new life is alchemy's greatest taboo and its most exquisite art."
He bit the egg clean in half, chewed slowly, then smiled at the horrified trio.
"No cooks? No problem. We'll cook ourselves."
That night, dinner appeared on the tables.
The food wailed.
Literally. Something on the plates was still moving and making faint, despairing noises.
A Durmstrang boy poked at a tentacle that curled around his fork. "…Is this traditional British cuisine?"
No. Those were interdimensional combat rations.
The Hogwarts students ate only whole apples and raw carrots, eyes fixed firmly on their plates, silently swearing never to anger Ethan Vincent ever again.
November arrived with snow soft as owl feathers.
The Beauxbatons girls, unused to real winter, shivered delicately in their silk cloaks.
But nothing warmed the soul like a steaming butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, hands wrapped around the mug, cheeks pink from cold and firewhisky fumes.
("Why can they go to Hogsmeade anytime they want?!" a third-year howled. "I wanna follow the pretty French girls forever!")
The first task was over. The second wouldn't come until after Christmas.
In the meantime, a different kind of war broke out.
The Yule Ball Partner War — specifically, the Ethan Vincent War.
Dancing with Ethan was a trophy you could brag about until your grandchildren were sick of hearing it.
Perfumed letters sealed with lipstick kisses, invitations written in glitter ink, chocolates laced with love potion, and even anonymous threats cut from newspaper clippings began piling up beside Ethan's bed like offerings to a minor god.
At breakfast, girls from every house — and every school — queued up behind him, blushing furiously, sliding envelopes into the little mailbox he'd charmed to hover at shoulder height.
The slot was labelled in elegant script: [Please deposit in order ↓]
The boys at the tables could only watch and seethe.
Michael Corner looked like he was about to lay an egg out of pure envy.
"Hmph!" he snarled, face purple. "It's not like anyone actually thinks they have a chance! They're all doing it secretly because they're embarrassed to ask in per—"
The Great Hall fell silent.
Michael looked up.
Fleur Delacour had risen from the Ravenclaw table.
She wore silver — not the school robes, but a proper dress that shimmered like moonlight on water. Simple, perfect, and utterly lethal.
Her heels clicked across the flagstones.
Every boy in the hall turned to stare, mouths open, drooling like dogs promised a steak.
Someone whispered, "Veela…"
Fleur stopped in front of Ethan, arms crossed, chin high, radiating pure aristocratic disdain.
The silver bracelet on her wrist pulsed softly — definitely enchanted to amplify her allure.
Michael made a choking sound like a dying goose.
Ethan remained seated, forked egg halfway to his mouth, and smiled politely.
"May I help you, Miss Delacour?"
Fleur's jaw tightened.
She flicked her wand.
Instantly the air filled with floating irises, pale purple petals drifting down like snow.
The Great Hall smelled like a summer meadow in Provence.
French romance level: maximum.
Fleur tossed her hair and gave him a lazy, queenly smile.
"I am far too important to waste time looking for a suitable partner. You will do."
The boys in the hall collectively lost their minds.
Monkeys would have been more dignified.
Ethan opened his mouth — probably to decline in the most devastating way possible —
And then a river of silver-blue starlight poured across the ceiling, washing away every iris in an instant.
Fleur staggered, caught off guard by the sheer power.
Luna Lovegood stood up slowly, pale golden hair spilling over her shoulders like moonlight.
She lifted her wand, serene as ever, and smiled her dreamy little smile, and said softly,
"I'm sorry, Fleur. But I've already asked Ethan to the ball… and he said yes."
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