Silence descended on the Great Hall like a held breath.
Every head tilted upward.
Above them, a river of stars poured across the enchanted ceiling: dark velvet strewn with diamonds, slow and endless, cradling the air in the hush of a lullaby. It was nothing like the gaudy fireworks of Fleur's irises. This was quiet, ancient, almost maternal.
Merlin's leopard-print briefs.
Ethan Vincent's sovereignty war had officially begun.
The students froze, afraid that even blinking would shatter the moment. All eyes locked on the two girls facing each other across the flagstones.
"You!" Fleur snapped, cheeks flaming beneath her perfect veil of silver-blonde hair. Her wand was already in her hand.
With a sharp flick, massive purple irises burst into existence, petals unfurling like banners of war. They surged forward, trying to smother the drifting starlight under sheer floral bravado.
Fleur's lips curved in smug victory. Too easy.
She tossed her head and looked down at Luna Lovegood the way one might regard an overambitious first-year.
Then she met those pale, moon-wide eyes.
Something cold brushed the inside of Fleur's ribs. She flinched before she could stop herself.
"[All living beings, please grant me the flawless light of life…]"
The words slipped from Luna's mouth like water over glass: not English, not French, but something older. Runes. True, singing runes that made the air itself vibrate.
Ethan's head snapped toward her, genuine surprise flickering across his unfairly handsome face. He knew she borrowed his Ancient Runes textbook sometimes, but this—this was mastery.
Around Luna, pale sapphire light kindled, soft yet blinding. Her golden hair lifted as though an unseen wind cradled it; the hem of her robes rose like tide. Those eerie eyes blazed—two full moons behind frosted glass—and the Great Hall went utterly still.
Someone's fork clattered to the floor and nobody moved to pick it up.
"Didn't I tell you…" Luna's voice floated out, dreamy and merciless, "Ethan already promised to take me to the ball."
From the very first letter in first year, through every impossible fight they'd survived together—how could anyone imagine that bond was fragile enough to snap?
She lifted one pale hand toward Fleur, fingers spread like a benediction or a curse.
Fleur couldn't move.
"Oh my, it seems you're all having far too much fun without me."
The kindly old voice cut through the tension like a knife through silk.
The sapphire light vanished as though it had never been. Luna's feet touched the ground with the gentlest tap. When she looked up again, only wide-eyed innocence remained, the picture of a harmless Ravenclaw daydreamer.
She smiled beatifically toward the entrance. "Good morning, Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled above his half-moon spectacles as he surveyed the chaos: the lingering starlight, the wilting irises, and one very rattled Veela.
"Good morning, Miss Lovegood," he said pleasantly. "Should I take this as an impromptu talent exhibition?"
Behind him, Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed so thin they had vanished entirely, and Madame Maxime looked ready to breathe fire.
"Fleur!" The Beauxbatons headmistress swept forward and seized her champion by the shoulders. "Are you hurt? Did someone attack you?"
Fleur jerked free, colour high. "I am perfectly fine," she hissed, voice rough. "I do not get bullied by little girls."
She shot Ethan a glare sharp enough to slice stone, spun on her heel, and stalked away. The click of her heels sounded suspiciously like gunfire. Her ears, though—those delicate, translucent ears—burned crimson.
Inside her head, a single furious refrain looped:
I will drag that insufferable boy back to France in chains if I have to!
She risked one last glance at Luna. The younger girl gazed back with serene, unblinking calm.
Next time, Fleur promised herself, no one will interrupt.
She missed the whisper that followed her out:
"Next time, no one will interrupt."
At the staff table, Dumbledore cleared his throat delicately. "Perhaps we might lower the luminosity a touch? Some of us are rather fond of seeing our breakfast."
Ethan, who had been watching the entire exchange with the expression of a man enjoying premium seats at a dragon fight, finally stood.
Every male in the hall leaned forward.
Here it came—the choice.
Ethan raised his wand with theatrical grace.
A blinding golden supernova detonated from the tip, swallowing the starlight, the irises, and every last shred of dignity the Great Hall still possessed.
"Agh! My retinas!"
"Who lobbed a bloody flashbang in here?!"
"It's the Radiance! Quick, everyone prostrate yourselves!"
"ETHAN VINCENT, YOU ABSOLUTE GREMLIN!"
Michael Corner's outraged bellow rose above the chaos like a foghorn. "Is your skull lined with mirrors or something?!"
Through the searing light, Ethan's laughter rang out—manic, gleeful, and utterly terrifying.
The professors clutched their temples in perfect unison.
Born from the hands of forgotten gods and raw, weaponised radiance, with no emotional intelligence for romance and no shame for chaos, you will blind your enemies and your friends alike. You are the new Chosen One. You are the pure, unadulterated stat monster—Ethan Vincent.
When the light finally faded and the spots cleared from everyone's vision, the Great Hall settled into stunned, slightly traumatised quiet.
The girls who had spent weeks drafting love letters suddenly found more pressing concerns—like not going blind before Christmas.
Conversation at dinner that night carried a distinctly wistful flavour.
"Ah well," Parvati sighed, stirring her soup. "At least I can say I once sent Ethan Vincent a love letter."
Lavender patted her hand. "We all did, darling. We all did."
And with that, the frenzy cooled to a simmer.
The Yule Ball was almost upon them, and Hogwarts turned its frantic energy toward dress robes, dancing lessons, and praying that Ethan didn't decide to weaponise the decorative fairy lights.
Christmas was coming.
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