"Phew…"
Ethan felt the candle-flame in his skull flare brighter, hotter, chasing away the last clinging shadows in his mind. Thoughts snapped into place like perfectly aligned gears. When he spoke again, every syllable carried the warm, dangerous glow of the Lamp.
"From this moment on," he said softly, tasting the new weight of his own voice, "people will listen when I talk."
He rubbed his throat, lips curling into a smile that would have made a lesser man back away slowly.
I want the whole world to hear me.
Public speaking: officially mastered.
Soul Integration: 87.9% → sprinting toward the final 10%.
Ethan knew the All-Knower was never the summit. Far above it, something vast and ancient waited, gazing down from the firmament with patient, star-cold eyes. Just remembering it sent a delicious shiver through him.
One day I'll paint my art across the entire universe.
For now, "the whole wizarding world" would do nicely.
Heh.
[The Light of the "Lamp" reveals what was concealed] [You have discovered an ancient manuscript: Formula for the Wave-Washing Elixir!]
A sheet of parchment materialised in his palm—yellowed, brittle, smelling faintly of graves. The texture was wrong: rough, sticky, almost like the parchment had been cured from something that once had a pulse.
"Bipedal sheep really are the gift that keeps on giving," Ethan murmured, turning the page with reverent fingers. "No wonder the old masters liked tattooing secrets on them."
[Wave-Washing Elixir Originally devised for ghouls—to reawaken memories trapped in half-digested, decaying flesh still inside a living stomach. Later adapted by enterprising witches and wizards to fuse parasitic curses with their hosts rather than excise them. "It made me feel reborn." — Bloody Mary, 1553]
Ingredients: honey, nether-lily petals, powdered ivory bone, and one spotted mushroom cultivated on a corpse fattened by the Dark Arts.
"So it doesn't rip the curse out like werewolf treatments do," Ethan whispered, sapphire eyes glittering. "It marries you to it. Turns the parasite into a willing symbiote."
Ariana Dumbledore flickered across his mind—poor shattered girl, an Obscurial eating her alive from the inside.
Maybe this brew could give her a second life… or something far more interesting.
A sudden clap on his shoulder yanked him out of the reverie.
"Oi! Earth to Ethan!" Michael Corner grinned, half-drunk on victory. "Stop mooning over ancient creepy recipes and come celebrate! We're about to win the whole bloody Tournament!"
Only then did Ethan register the roaring tide of students surging toward the castle—scarlet and gold banners snapping in the wind, badly-played saxophones squealing, explosions of premature fireworks. Hogwarts had taken the lead in the first two tasks. One more decent showing and the Cup was theirs.
Anthony Goldstein jogged past, shouting over the din, "You coming, Vincent? You're the reason half the school's still got eyebrows!"
Ethan's smile turned lazy and terrible. "You lot go on. I've got… errands."
Michael caught the particular curl at the corner of Ethan's mouth—the one that usually preceded something hilarious and horrifying—and decided not to ask questions.
"Just don't miss the feast, yeah? You're the hero of the hour."
Ethan's eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "Hero. Right. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Especially not when the final task is going to be such glorious, world-shaking theatre. Voldemort, Dumbledore… they're both going to put on a show.
He slipped Luna a few vials of invigorating draught first—pale fingers brushing hers for just a second too long—then melted away from the jubilant crowd.
The moment he was alone, the smile dropped like a portcullis. Cold, predatory winter filled those sapphire eyes.
Time to deal with Barty.
Poor, useless Barty Crouch Jr. About to disappoint his Dark Lord again.
I did give you a chance, you know.
Ethan flicked his wand; a dark rectangular portal yawned open in the air, edges flickering with violet flame.
Just before he stepped through, he paused, head tilting as though listening to distant music. A tiny, knowing smirk ghosted across his lips.
Then he was gone.
A heartbeat earlier, on the edge of the celebrating masses…
Rita Skeeter stood clutching a fistful of ruined drafts, acid-green quill trembling between her teeth.
"Ethan bloody Vincent…!"
She hurled the crumpled parchment to the ground and stomped on it like it had personally insulted her mother.
Black Lake dragons! Giant bloody squids! How many headline-stealing monsters did Hogwarts keep in its basement?!
Across the press bench, Mike McArthur leaned over with an oily grin. "Trouble in paradise, Skeeter? Still haven't filed your story? Shame. Mine went off the moment the task ended. Front page, I shouldn't wonder—riding the Vincent bandwagon paid off handsomely."
Rita's lip curled so hard it nearly vanished. "I've ended more careers than you've had hot dinners, you little—"
But McArthur was already sauntering away, humming.
Rita's eyes narrowed to slits. Fine. If the Tournament wouldn't give her the scandal she needed, she would manufacture a better one.
She scanned the crowd—and there he was: Ethan Vincent, strolling in completely the wrong direction, handsome as sin and twice as dangerous.
A slow, shark-like smile spread across Rita's face.
"Perfect."
She ducked behind a banner, body shrinking with a soft pop. An instant later, a beetle with garish markings on its wing-cases buzzed out, spectacles-pattern and all.
Let's see what nasty little secrets you're hiding, pretty boy. Front page, here I come!
She would never know how fatally she had miscalculated.
Hogwarts – The Chamber of Secrets
"—Hngh!"
Barty Crouch Jr. jolted awake, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. His real eye rolled wildly; the magical blue one spun on the slick stone floor like a lost marble before fixing on him.
For a split second the prosthetic felt… alive. Hungry. Watching.
Barty shuddered. Lack of sleep. That was all.
Every bone felt pulverised. His soul ached as though Dementors had been sipping at it for hours. Needle-sharp pain lanced behind his eyes.
"Where…?"
He pushed himself up on trembling arms, chains clinking softly. The Chamber's serpentine carvings leered down at him in the sickly torchlight.
And then memory returned like a Bludger to the skull.
Whenever he followed that man—Mr. Lamp—things ended exactly like this: broken, bleeding, and very much not in control of the situation.
Barty's split tongue tasted copper. A low, amused chuckle echoed from the darkness ahead.
"Evening, Barty," said a voice like velvet wrapped around a knife. "Sleep well?"
Sapphire eyes glowed faintly as Ethan Vincent stepped into the torchlight, handsome and terrible and smiling that smile that was somehow a joke and a death threat at the same time.
"Let's have a chat about your continued employment prospects, shall we?"
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