Professor Moody—Barty Crouch Jr.—was drenched in cold sweat.
Who could have guessed that "Mr. Lamp" had been Ethan Vincent in disguise the entire time?
Don't even ask why he hadn't drawn his wand. He had very nearly blurted out, "Why the hell is your wand pointing over there?"
Barty felt like a stray dog that had just been kicked for no reason at all.
Ethan Vincent! Deliberate or accidental? Which was it?!
To cover his blunder, he hastily arranged his features into the smug expression of a man who had known the truth from the start. In that gravelly, theatrical rasp, he announced, "Hmph. A fake, just as I suspected. I saw through it ages ago."
As he spoke, beneath the horrified stares of the students, he theatrically tapped his whirling magical eye. The girls in their glittering ball gowns recoiled with little shrieks of disgust.
Performance: flawless. Nobody noticed the sweat pouring down Professor Moody's temple.
"Saw through it ages ago" was a bald-faced lie. That magical eye hadn't distinguished Ethan from Mr. Lamp at all. It wasn't nearly as miraculous as the rumours claimed.
Barty didn't care. Rumours were always exaggerated. It couldn't possibly be useless… could it?
At least Dumbledore seemed to have bought the act.
He shifted his gaze, pivoted with exaggerated bravado, and clapped his stunned father on the shoulder as if comforting him.
Grinning at the students, he bellowed, "Enough vigilance for one night! Tonight we celebrate Christmas!"
At his command the lights shifted. The eerie green candlelight vanished, replaced by warm gold. The Weird Sisters exploded onto the stage in a burst of smoke and guitar.
A single ferocious strum— BOOM! The Great Hall detonated into pure euphoria.
"Ohhhhhhhhh—!"
Butterbeer flew. Foam splattered faces and dress robes, catching the light like scattered diamonds.
In the midst of the frenzy, Barty finally exhaled.
He shot his father a venomous glance brimming with contempt and loathing. A useless old man, terrified by a schoolboy's words.
And "casting Avada Kedavra at me"? If it hadn't been Mr. Lamp, how could anyone survive the Killing Curse?
"I've already pried everything about the second task out of that idiot Bagman," Barty muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with murderous fire. "I'm ready."
"As long as nothing unexpected happens, Ethan Vincent dies this time."
First task—you got lucky, boy. Second task? I'm playing for keeps. I'll be in the water myself.
A cautious thought flickered. "Still… better send word to Mr. Lamp. Once he hears how that brat threatened me tonight, he'll be furious."
The mere idea painted victory across Barty's mind: the Dark Lord's praise, his cold hand on Barty's shoulder…
His lips split into a wide, manic grin.
Determination burned in his chest like Fiendfyre.
Meanwhile, outside the Great Hall, in the moonlit garden.
The night was perfectly still.
The lawn had been specially cleared for the ball; evergreen hedges whispered in the breeze.
Rustle, rustle—
Ethan strolled along the pebble path, Luna's hand warm in his. In his other hand he toyed with a new card that leaked black, dangerous mist—like living shadow.
"What is it?" Luna asked, head tilted, pale blue eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
Ethan flipped his hand; the card vanished. He pressed a solemn finger to his lips. "A marvelous little surprise for the second task," he whispered conspiratorially.
The Obscurus egg—he'd finished it after all. A brand-new flourish for the upcoming trial. He couldn't wait to see Dumbledore's face when that ball of writhing darkness was unleashed.
The night he had slipped into the Department of Mysteries, Ethan had gone straight to the restricted section and looked up "Ariana." Ariana Dumbledore. The official record was one devastating line: "Because of an experimental accident, a young Albus Dumbledore lost his sister forever."
Unofficial histories whispered that she had been an Obscurial. They spun heartbreaking, melodramatic tales around it.
"Hmph~" Luna pouted, clearly put out. "You're always keeping secrets."
Ethan threw his head back and laughed, eyes curving into crescent moons. He looked at her softly. "One day you'll know everything."
Luna brightened instantly. "Good. I'm very good at waiting."
With that, she skipped ahead like a baby deer, silver-blonde hair catching moonlight.
Ethan followed at an easy pace, polished shoes crunching on gravel. The breeze lifted the dark hair from his forehead.
He wasn't dressed ostentatiously—just a perfectly tailored black suit, deep blue tie, and a jeweled eagle brooch pinned to his lapel. Yet every small movement radiated lethal charm. He was a walking Amorentia overdose.
When he had passed through the crowd leaving the Great Hall, half the girls had needed to lean on their dates to stay upright.
Ethan exhaled, long and content, and tilted his face to the full moon. For once, his heart felt strangely, perfectly at peace.
They reached the little fountain at the garden's heart.
Ethan stopped. Luna was already trailing her fingers through the water, watching the ripples.
He extended his right hand, bowed with courtly grace, and smiled—that slow, dangerous, beautiful smile that made people forget how to breathe.
"May I have this dance, Miss Lovegood?"
Luna blinked once. Then she simply seized his hand—no pretense of etiquette—and beamed a smile so radiant it put the moon to shame.
"Until the stars burn out," she declared.
Ethan's grin widened, sharp and fond. He drew his wand with a lazy flick.
A spectral violin materialized in mid-air and began to play a slow, aching melody. Tambourine, clarinet, and piano joined in ghostly harmony.
The night itself seemed to fall silent—no birds, no insects, only music and moonlight.
Ethan slipped an arm around Luna's waist; her hand settled lightly on his shoulder. They swayed, slow and perfect, bathed in ivory light.
Not far away, Hagrid and Madame Maxime—on their exceedingly awkward "date"—crouched behind a hedge, staring in open-mouthed astonishment.
Madame Maxime swallowed hard. "Do zey teach demon-summoning at 'Ogwarts now?"
The shadows at the couple's feet were practically dancing on their own.
Hagrid was quiet a moment—Ethan, summon a demon? Really?—then rubbed his ham-sized hands together and changed the subject with desperate cheer. "Er—d'you want ter come see me Blast-Ended Skrewts? They can do backflips now!"
The Yule Ball ended in joyous chaos.
A secret letter soared from Hogwarts under cover of night, took a long, circuitous route, and finally drifted back through an open tower window.
A pale, severed hand waiting on the desk caught it neatly and placed it—with eerie gentleness—atop its master's blotter.
In the unseen depths of the castle, the letter was opened.
A soft, amused chuckle. A single line penned in reply:
"Do not worry. Everything will be arranged."
—Mr. Lamp
Days blurred into frantic preparation.
Then, at last—
The second task of the Triwizard Tournament began.
This time, the arena was the Black Lake.
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