In the stands, every student's jaw dropped as the colossal creature broke the surface.
Even from the topmost rows, the sheer pressure rolling off it was suffocating—like standing at the foot of a living mountain that had decided to wake up angry.
Its body blotted out half the lake, a glistening obsidian island. Thick tentacles, each one wider than a carriage, whipped through the water, hurling thousand-ton waves into the air. A briny, metallic stench flooded the stands.
The Merpeople who'd been shrieking and circling moments earlier vanished into the depths as if someone had yanked a plug.
"Merlin's saggy left— what in the name of Gorgons is that?!"
Lee Jordan's voice cracked over the loudspeakers, speaking for the entire school.
"There've always been whispers about something huge living in the Black Lake… but nobody said it was a bloody Kraken!"
The roar from the crowd was almost as loud as the dragon's had been back in November.
"That's the thing that fished me out!" squeaked Dennis Creevey, practically vibrating with excitement. He and Colin were snapping photos so fast their cameras smoked. "Beginning of term—I fell in, remember? One of those tentacles just… yoinked me straight onto the bank!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So it really wasn't one of Ethan's 'art projects'?"
Hermione shook her head, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to hero-worship. "Giant squids are real, yes… but the textbooks never mentioned one the size of the Astronomy Tower. This one must have been here since the Founders. One of their private guard dogs, basically. That's why it saved Dennis instead of eating him."
She hugged herself, cheeks pink. "And Ethan just… asked it to come out and play. Willingly. Harry, he's basically talking to the castle's pets the way the Founders did."
Harry and Ron shared a long, suffering look.
Ron mouthed, She's gone again.
Hermione didn't notice. "If I could just catch up to that light… stand right beside him…" She trailed off, practically glowing.
Harry muttered, "Pretty sure that light's classified as a lethal weapon at this point."
Out on the water, the champions were discovering that "terrifying" was a sliding scale.
One of the Durmstrang boys looked ready to cry. "I thought no dragon meant easier. I was wrong. This is worse. This is personal."
Fleur's face had gone the color of skim milk. "That—that thing has my sister!"
Wrapped gently—but very firmly—in the slick black tentacles were four limp figures: Mr. Diggory, Mr. Lovegood, a stern-looking Beauxbatons aunt, and little Gabrielle Delacour, silver-blonde hair drifting like seaweed.
Cedric made a choked sound. "Dad…"
Neville doubled over the edge of his platform as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Gran!"
Even Krum's perpetual scowl deepened. Something about the scene felt… familiar. The theatrical cruelty, the public humiliation of loved ones. Classic Death Eater calling card.
Except this time it was legal, Ministry-approved, and happening in broad daylight in front of three headmasters.
Krum gave a low, reluctant whistle. "Vincent… you are terrifying man."
High above the lake, Ethan balanced casually on a bridge made of solid air, the crimson rose in its glass dome resting in his palm. A few petals had already fallen—slow, deliberate, inevitable.
His voice carried without effort, light and pleasant, the way a knife is light and pleasant right before it slides between ribs.
"One-third of your time is gone, my friends. Tick-tock."
Fleur's breath hitched. She knew—knew—he wouldn't actually murder children and parents on live broadcast.
And yet the tiny, animal part of her brain screamed that Ethan Vincent absolutely would, smiling the entire time, maybe even crack a joke while the light left their eyes.
She shook herself. "We don't fight the squid! We get the hostages! Now!"
She kicked off, part-Veela grace cutting through the water—then froze.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Inside the coil of tentacles, "Gabrielle" opened her eyes just a slit. The corner of her mouth curled—not the dazed smile of a sleeping eight-year-old, but something sharp, gleeful, and entirely adult.
Barty Crouch Jr. was having the time of his life.
Polyjuice had never tasted so sweet.
Nestled among the real hostages, wrapped in squid like the world's most uncomfortable hammock, he was already inside the perimeter. No Portkeys, no brooms, no suspicious wands waved. Just a giant cephalopod doing the smuggling for him.
Mr. Lamp, you absolute genius, he thought, practically purring. Swapping me in during the transfer—right under Dumbledore's twinkling nose and the Ministry's fat thumbs. I could kiss you.
One Killing Curse. That's all it would take. One clean shot while Ethan posed dramatically on his stupid glass bridge, and the Dark Lord's biggest obstacle would be gone.
Barty's tongue traced the roof of his mouth where his real wand was hidden, shrunk and taped flat.
Easy.
Then—
"AH!"
"Get it off—!"
"The black egg—it broke!"
Barty's smugness stuttered.
Black egg?
What black egg?
Ludo Bagman had definitely not mentioned any—
CRACK.
An explosion of pure concussive force slapped him across the face hard enough to rattle teeth. The tentacle around him flexed involuntarily, nearly crushing his ribs.
Black smoke—thick, writhing, wrong—billowed up from the Beauxbatons platform like a dam had burst in Hell.
It rose in a column, then spread, blotting out the sun. The temperature plummeted twenty degrees in a heartbeat.
From inside the smoke came a sound no human throat could make: a scraping, shredding wail, as though every banshee in Britain had decided to sing at once through broken glass.
The champions clapped hands over their ears, some dropping to their knees.
Barty's blood turned to sleet.
Because the smoke wasn't drifting randomly.
It arrowed straight for him—hungry, purposeful, and very, very fast.
Somewhere above, Ethan's laughing voice floated down like poisoned honey.
"Oops. Looks like someone woke the residents early."
He tilted his head, sapphire eyes glittering with pure delight.
"Have fun, Barty~"
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