Memories crashed over him like a tidal wave.
The "Dark Egg" that had never been part of the plan, possessed by the raw power of the curse.
Then the relentless beating at the hands of the champions.
And finally, blazing across his mind in letters of fire: Failure!!
Clap.
A single, crisp sound shattered the vast, dead silence.
Barty jolted as though struck by lightning.
He looked up in a daze.
There, perched atop what he had mistaken for a stone pillar, sat a figure.
Mr. Lamp.
In his gloved hands he held an ancient, leather-bound book, its cover dominated by a single, grotesquely lifelike eye. The iris was a violent crimson; faint veins seemed to pulse beneath the surface, as though the eye might blink at any moment. A sickly, oppressive aura rolled off it, thick enough to choke on.
Barty shrank back instinctively, shoulders hunching.
A dim, sickly emerald glow outlined Mr. Lamp from behind, throwing his shadow forward like a shroud. On the featureless white mask, two pitch-black voids stared down—cold, indifferent, the gaze of something that had never known mercy.
"You failed," Mr. Lamp said, voice flat and clear behind the porcelain.
There was no anger in the words, no reproach at all. And yet sweat instantly soaked the back of Barty's robes.
"T-that little bastard was shameless!" Barty spat through clenched teeth, hatred burning in his eyes. "If he hadn't tacked on those last-minute rules… how could a mere cursed orb have beaten me?!"
He had been so close. One heartbeat away from putting Ethan Vincent in the ground.
He didn't understand it. Every preparation had been flawless—yet somehow the boy was always one step ahead, as if he could see the future.
Impossible.
"Give me another chance!" Barty pleaded, voice cracking. "The final task—I'll finish it then. I swear it!"
The desperate roar echoed off the damp stone of the Chamber, then died, leaving only silence.
The white mask never moved.
A bead of sweat slid down Barty's temple.
At last the verdict came, soft and final: "The Dark Lord is… very disappointed in you."
It struck harder than any curse.
Barty's face drained of color.
Of course Ethan was lying. There hadn't been time to report back to Voldemort. But Barty didn't know that, and the lie was sweeter than honey laced with poison.
Ethan let the silence stretch, then continued in that same measured tone. "I went to considerable trouble smuggling you into the Tournament—replacing Fleur's little sister. All you had to do was wait for the perfect moment and cast one Unforgivable."
"It should have been foolproof."
Barty's eyes bulged. His whole body began to shake. "No—no, please—"
"Lord Voldemort has decided you are no longer useful."
"NO!" Barty shrieked, blood vessels bursting across the whites of his eyes. He staggered backward, head whipping around for any escape. "I have to see him—I have to explain! My Master would never abandon me!"
Tsk, tsk.
Some dogs just can't stop licking the boot, even when it kicks them into the grave.
Ethan gave a soft, pitying shake of the head and smiled behind the mask. "Relax. Even useless trash has its purpose."
"Your body, for instance, will make an exquisite flowerpot."
Rich with dark magic, swollen with years of loyal service—perfect soil for the rare Spotted Fungus, one of the crucial ingredients in the Cleansing Elixir. The mushroom only grew in living flesh saturated with the Dark Arts.
Honestly, it was almost considerate of Barty to volunteer.
I really must write that book someday, Ethan thought idly. One Hundred and Eight Creative Uses for Death Eaters.
"Neville will be thrilled when I hand him a brand-new species to cultivate," he added aloud, eyes curving with amusement.
Barty stared at him, mouth working soundlessly. Whatever language this creature spoke, it wasn't human.
A violent shudder ran from the soles of Barty's feet to the crown of his head.
Ethan clapped once, brightly. "Well then—time's up. Off you go."
Terror exploded across Barty's face. He spun and bolted.
No Apparition inside Hogwarts—fine! That meant Mr. Lamp was bound by the same rules as everyone else. Dumbledore's wards would protect him!
For the first time in his life, Barty Crouch Jr. prayed the old fool would show up.
Then came the sound—scrrrtch, scrrrtch—like armored scales dragging across stone.
Something vast and cold brushed the back of his neck.
Barty turned.
Yellow slit pupils glowed in the dark, hanging far too high above the floor.
He remembered, too late, that the "stone pillar" had never been stone at all.
Crunch.
The petrification started in his bones and raced outward, turning muscle and blood to granite in heartbeats.
"M-Master—" The plea died in his throat.
With a heavy thud, a perfect stone statue of Barty Crouch Jr.—mouth open in a silent scream—hit the floor.
"Good girl, Basilisk," Ethan murmured fondly, running a hand along the cool, pebbled hide.
The serpent nudged him affectionately, nearly knocking him over.
Ethan hopped down, cast a quick Hot-Air Charm on his damp robes, and gave the statue an experimental kick. Solid.
Not dead, of course. Death was too merciful, too… tasteless. Besides, the fungus needed a living host to feed on.
"Heave-ho."
He hefted the statue (surprisingly light once the Extension Charm took hold) and stuffed it into his leather satchel. Essential travel gear: perfect for carrying books, bodies, or both.
Ethan dusted off his hands. "Mushroom farming is officially Neville's problem now. The Ministry can supply the rest of the ingredients—willingly or otherwise."
Friends in high places, after all.
A soft, boyish laugh echoed off the walls, bright and harmless.
He had bigger games to play.
"In a few months the third task arrives," he mused, strolling toward the pipe entrance. "Voldemort plans to use Harry's blood for his resurrection."
"I plan to improve the recipe."
Almost everything was ready for the Soul Cauldron ritual: the wicked soul, the lamp now burning at "Bright" intensity, the Ministry unwittingly repairing the shattered labyrinth…
All that remained was the final stroke—the Tier-3 Epic Purple portrait.
And the key to that lay with Ariana Dumbledore.
"Tonight," Ethan decided, "I'll pay another visit to the Hidden Place."
A wicked gleam flickered in his diamond-blue eyes.
Oh, people would complain that the third task had been changed at the last second.
But surprises keep life interesting.
"Perfect," he said, clapping once more. "Everything is proceeding exactly as planned."
Then he paused.
One loose thread remained.
His gaze slid sideways, pupils narrowing to pinpricks.
In the far corner, nearly invisible against the stone, sat a small black beetle. Its magical signature pulsed—definitely not insectile.
The beetle froze as those eyes found it.
Ethan smiled, slow and pleasant.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The footsteps started toward her, unhurried.
The beetle's wings twitched, then stilled. Playing dead.
It didn't help.
Rita Skeeter had wanted the scoop of the century.
She had followed a Portkey straight into the Chamber of Secrets, certain she would uncover Ethan Vincent's darkest secrets.
Instead she had watched the celebrated young hero transform into the masked terrorist "Mr. Lamp," casually condemn a man to living entombment, and joke about harvesting black-magic mushrooms from his flesh.
Some stories, once seen, could never be unseen.
Some stories killed the storyteller.
"Bzzz!"
She shot into the air, darting frantically through the stone corridors, past carpets of ancient bones, toward the pipe she had entered through—only to slam into solid stone.
Of course.
No exit.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The footsteps never hurried.
Rita reverted to human form and collapsed, back pressed to the cold wall, blonde curls plastered to her face with sweat.
The masked figure was gone.
In his place stood a tall, impossibly handsome young man with tousled black curls and those unsettling diamond-blue eyes. The black robes lay discarded; he looked like he'd stepped out of a high-society portrait—if high society met in ancient snake-infested tombs.
He stopped in front of her.
Rita's breath came in ragged gasps. Her quick-quotes quill and acid-green handbag lay forgotten somewhere in beetle-form.
"Ah… ah…" She tried to speak, managed a trembling smile. "C-could I… perhaps… resign?"
Ethan's smile was gentle, almost kind.
"Obliviate."
His wand flicked almost lazily.
A blaze of white light swallowed her whole.
His magic, Rita discovered in the last coherent second before her mind was gently, expertly unmade, was just a tiny bit stronger than most people's.
You'll have to forgive the over-enthusiasm, he thought, watching her eyes go blank.
Can't have you remembering what you saw, Rita dear.
But don't worry.
I'll leave you just enough curiosity to keep chasing the next big story.
Ethan turned on his heel, whistling a cheerful tune as he strolled back toward the pipe, satchel swinging lightly at his side.
Behind him, the Chamber of Secrets settled into silence once more—save for the soft rustle of a beetle, dazed but alive, crawling in confused circles on the stone floor.
Some secrets, after all, were simply too delicious to kill outright.
He still needed the press, didn't he?