"Wow."
Harry tugged at the starched collar of his black dress robes (they still looked faintly ridiculous on him) and stared, open-mouthed, at the Great Hall's transformation.
The place blazed with golden light. Thousands of candles floated beneath the enchanted ceiling, their flames doubled and tripled by the polished goblets and silver cutlery. Mistletoe and holly swagged every window and wall, tied with scarlet and gold ribbons that shivered like living things in the warm air. Outside, the snow fell in thick, silent curtains, but in here the hall felt like the heart of summer.
For most of the students, though, the real magic was on the tables: glistening roast turkeys the size of small boats, rivers of gravy over clouds of mashed potato, pyramids of fat German sausages, and pies so numerous they threatened to spill onto the floor. And butterbeer—mountains of it, foaming in tall glass flagons.
"Wow," Ron echoed, eyes round.
He swallowed. The sound was cartoonishly loud.
Ron's ears went scarlet as he darted glances left and right, praying no one had heard.
"Hey! Our little Ronnikins is so hungry he's about to eat the table!"
Two identical red-headed demons popped up behind him and slapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Ron nearly bit his tongue in half. "Get lost!"
"On Christmas Day?" Fred gasped, clutching his heart. "Telling your own flesh and blood to shove off? New robes gone straight to your head, have they?"
George leaned in, stage-whispering, "He's forgotten the little people already."
Ron's face now matched his hair. "Shut up…"
Thanks to the small fortune Ethan had made selling moonpetal essence, Ron was wearing brand-new dress robes tonight—plain black, nothing flashy, but worlds away from the maroon monstrosity with lace cuffs his mum had once tried to make him wear. When he'd found out that had almost been his fate, he'd nearly dropped to his knees and kissed Ethan's shoes.
Harry hurriedly changed the subject. "Where are Ethan and Luna, anyway? The champions are supposed to enter together."
The twins shrugged in perfect unison. "With Ethan? Normal is off the table."
Their eyes gleamed with unholy anticipation.
Harry sighed. He could already feel the oncoming headache.
Professor McGonagall was practically herding them backstage with her bare hands, lips thin, tartan robes swishing like an angry cat's tail. She even flicked her wand at Harry's perpetually untidy hair in a futile attempt to flatten it.
"I think Professor McGonagall's a bit… on edge," Fred whispered as they surrendered the last of their concealed fireworks.
"Anyone who's ever lost a prank war to Ethan Vincent would be," Harry muttered.
"Places, children!" McGonagall barked. "Time's up!"
She said it like she was marching them to the gallows.
The orchestra struck up a soaring waltz. Harry offered Parvati his arm (trying not to trip over his own feet) and stepped through the curtain into blinding light.
On the very first beat he trod heavily on Parvati's toes.
"Sorry," he mumbled, pretending not to see the death glare she shot him.
Whispers rippled through the hall: "Where's Ethan?"
Harry's shoulders stiffened. He turned left instead of right, nearly clotheslining Parvati.
And still—no Ethan, no Luna.
The song dragged on forever. When the final note at last faded and polite applause pattered around the hall, Harry was sweating through his robes. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Sirius in the crowd, clapping with manic enthusiasm and whistling like a banshee. Harry managed a shaky grin.
Then the violins sighed into silence.
Whoosh.
A cold wind swept the length of the hall. Every single candle snuffed out at once.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Harry's heart leapt into his throat.
"Here we go," he whispered, half terrified, half resigned. Just Ethan being Ethan.
He was almost smiling.
Then the smile died.
From the pitch black at the far end of the hall, a pure white mask drifted forward, catching the faint moonlight like a ghost.
Mr. Deng's mask.
Dead silence fell—absolute, suffocating silence.
Professor Moody was already half out of his seat, magical eye spinning wildly, hand hovering over his wand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Slow, deliberate footsteps.
A shaft of moonlight speared through the high windows, spotlighting the figure as though the night itself were complicit.
In his arms hung a limp, pale girl. One slender arm dangled lifelessly. Crimson drops pattered onto the flagstones.
Luna Lovegood.
A single red rose bloomed from a gaping wound in her chest, impossibly vivid, petals dewed with blood.
"Love murders without drawing blood," a voice murmured—low, deliberate, almost tender. "It leaves the dead unburied and the living without rest…"
Harry's blood turned to ice. That voice—young, male, familiar.
A white-gloved hand rose, fingers brushing the rose. One petal drifted down like a falling star.
"When every petal falls, the black egg will crack… and devour what you cherish most."
A pause, theatrical, cruel.
"This is your clue for the second task."
Whoosh.
Every candle flared back to life.
Light flooded the hall.
Behind the pure white mask, a pair of amused sapphire eyes glittered.
Ethan Vincent smiled his usual lazy, devastating smile.
Luna—who had been "dead" seconds ago—looped her arms cheerfully around his neck, sat bolt upright, and waved at the stunned crowd like a beauty queen on a float.
Two heartbeats of frozen silence.
Then the Great Hall detonated.
The Weasley twins vaulted onto the tables, faces scarlet with delight, pounding their fists in the air.
"BEST ENTRANCE EVER!"
"HE PLAYED YOU-KNOW-WHO! HE ACTUALLY DID IT!"
Harry's knees nearly buckled with relief. He started laughing—couldn't help it. "His sense of humor is still completely unhinged…"
But the image of that rose blooming from Luna's chest was already burned into his mind. He'd never forget the clue. Never.
Amid the roaring applause, Ethan inclined his head, gracious as any prince.
Only those who knew him well would have caught the brief, dark flicker deep in those sapphire eyes.
BANG!
A fist slammed down on the staff table.
Barty Crouch was on his feet, face purple, trembling with rage.
"Is the Dark Lord a fit subject for jokes?!" he bellowed. "This is childish—disrespectful—dangerous mockery!"
The applause faltered. Students exchanged uneasy glances.
Fred and George both reached instinctively for their wand pockets, muttering about Stink Pellets.
Dumbledore raised a placating hand. "Now, Barty, it's Christmas—"
He never finished.
Ethan set Luna lightly on her feet, turned those calm, terrifyingly blue eyes on Crouch, and spoke into the sudden hush.
"Tell me, Mr. Crouch," he said, soft but carrying to the rafters, "when the enemy walked in wearing that mask… why didn't you draw your wand and kill him?"
Crouch opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Ethan pivoted slowly, arms spread to the silent hall.
"Why did no one—professor, Auror, Ministry official—react at all? Do Dark wizards send engraved invitations these days? Announce their arrival with trumpets because it's a holiday?"
He let the silence stretch, crueler than any spell.
Then he smiled—small, fond, utterly chilling.
"Looks like you all need more practice."
A beat.
"The second task difficulty… has been increased."
The champions stared at him in abject horror.
Ron squeaked, somewhere in the crowd: "Mate, why are you literally turning into Mr. Deng?!"
At the staff table, Dumbledore's twinkling smile slipped for the first time all evening.
His bright blue eyes narrowed behind half-moon spectacles, snapping toward the one person who should never have frozen—the paranoid, battle-scarred ex-Auror who flinched at shadows.
Alastor Moody was staring at Ethan as though he'd seen a ghost.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened to a piercing edge.