By the Black Lake, the winter air thrummed with restless voices.
Perhaps, for the first time in centuries, the dark, monster-haunted water felt truly alive.
A thin skin of ice glittered across the black-green surface, catching the pale February sun. Cold wind knifed across the lake, sending ripple after ripple racing outward.
On the Beauxbatons side, Madame Maxime was frantically casting Warming Charms over her shivering students. She shot a resentful glare at the fur-clad Durmstrang contingent—already looking far too comfortable—and muttered something about "unfair advantages" and "bonus marks."
Then her gaze landed on the Hogwarts champions.
More precisely, on the tiny blonde figure who looked as though a stiff breeze might carry her straight into the Forbidden Forest.
Madame Maxime's jaw dropped. "Hogwarts sent zat little girl? She looks like one strong gust and—poof!"
Fleur Delacour gave an elegant, disdainful snort. She flicked a strand of silvery hair over her shoulder and glanced sideways at Luna Lovegood, who stood a little apart from everyone else, pale hands wrapped tightly around her wand, cheeks flushed red from cold.
This wasn't just a contest between schools anymore.
This was personal.
"Since you chose her," Fleur murmured under her breath, "let's see if she's actually worth it."
She absolutely, positively, did not believe she would lose.
In fact, her mind had already wandered to a sunny villa in the south of France, Ethan lounging beside her on a balcony overlooking the sea, the two of them laughing, kissing, living the perfect life…
"Hehe… hehehe…"
A dreamy giggle escaped her lips. A faint blush rose beneath the suspicious stare of Madame Maxime.
(She hadn't seen Gabrielle since breakfast, but surely her little sister had just wandered off to explore. Hogwarts was the safest place in Britain; nothing bad ever happened here.)
Across the shore, the Hogwarts students were having a collective meltdown.
Durmstrang had sent Viktor Krum—the Viktor Krum.
Beauxbatons had sent Fleur Delacour—the Fleur Delacour.
And Hogwarts had sent… Cedric Diggory, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood.
The disbelief was palpable.
"Cedric I get," a sixth-year Hufflepuff groaned, "but Neville? And Loony Lovegood? Are we trying to lose?"
"Why not Harry? Or at least the Weasley twins—they were brilliant against that Hungarian Horntail!"
"Neville's going to faint before he even reaches the water."
"This isn't a Triwizard Tournament anymore; it's a comedy sketch."
The whispers rolled like a wave. Neville, already pale, went the colour of old parchment. His knees knocked together audibly.
Luna drifted over and laid a gentle hand on his sleeve.
"Don't listen to them, Neville," she said in her soft, dreamy voice. "Just do your own thing."
"B-but I—I—"
She turned to face him fully. Those huge, pale eyes fixed on his with unnerving calm.
"You don't want to disappoint Ethan, do you?"
Neville?"
The shaking stopped as though someone had flipped a switch.
Neville swallowed hard, straightened his shoulders, and gave a jerky nod. "I… I won't let him down."
His voice still wobbled, but the determination in it rang clear across the shore.
Luna smiled—a small, mysterious curve of the lips—and looked out over the sceptical crowd.
"The night never explains itself to anyone," she said airily. "Yet when it falls, everyone understands."
On the press platform, Rita Skeeter's acid-green Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling furiously.
"SHOCKING HOGWARTS BLUNDER"… "MYSTERIOUS INFLUENCE OF ETHAN VINCENT"… "ARE THE CHAMPIONS DELIBERATELY SABOTAGED?"…
Rita licked her crimson lips, practically purring. Scandal sold papers, and this was pure dragon-grade scandal.
A low horn sounded—deep, mournful, ancient.
Silence rippled outward.
Every head turned toward the figure standing at the very end of the wooden jetty.
Ethan Vincent raised one polished shoe and stepped forward.
Not onto the jetty.
Onto thin air.
He hung there, six feet above the lake, grinning like a cat who'd swallowed a phoenix.
Tap, tap.
The golden ferrule of his staff rapped against nothing and produced a crisp, glassy note.
"Welcome, everyone," Ethan called, voice bright and terrible and amused, "to the second task of the Triwizard Tournament!"
He spread his arms theatrically.
"The rules are very simple. You will cross the invisible Glass Bridge suspended above the Black Lake, reach the centre platform, defeat the guardian creature, and retrieve your hostage.
"Oh, and one more teeny thing."
He flicked his wrist. A playing card appeared between his fingers, spun once, and became a glossy black egg the size of a half-metre long, veined with sickly green light.
Dumbledore, standing among the judges, went very still. The twinkle vanished from his eyes; for the first time in living memory the old headmaster looked genuinely afraid.
Ethan cradled the egg almost tenderly.
"This," he said sweetly, "is a vessel containing an Obscurus. Should the shell break… well. Things will become exciting."
He smiled wider, teeth too white, eyes too bright.
"Each team will carry one. The team whose egg remains intact at the end earns bonus points.
"I, for one, can't wait to see what happens if someone drops theirs."
A shiver ran through the crowd that had nothing to do with the Scottish winter.
Ethan's gaze swept the champions—Krum stone-faced, Fleur furious, Cedric steady, Neville terrified but resolute, Luna serene.
He snapped his fingers.
Invisible beneath their feet, the Glass Bridge shimmered into existence for a single heartbeat—just long enough for everyone to glimpse an endless lattice of transparent panes stretching over the black water—then vanished again.
"Your time starts…" Ethan glanced at an imaginary watch. "Now.
"Try not to fall. The merpeople are in a dreadful mood. I promised them fresh meat if anyone who gets wet is fair game."
From the depths rose a chorus of guttural, furious clicks and screeches.
Ethan beamed.
"Good luck, champions. And do try to keep your eggs warm."