The very next morning, the Daily Prophet screamed its headline across every breakfast table in Britain.
[SHOCKING! DAILY PROPHET STAR REPORTER RITA SKEETER FOUND WANDERING IN HOGWARTS FORBIDDEN FOREST—MIND SHATTERED, SUSPECTED VICTIM OF DARK MAGIC!]
The moving photograph was merciless. Rita Skeeter—usually so impeccably coiffed and venomously poised—looked like something dragged backwards through a hedge of Devil's Snare. Her bottle-blonde curls hung in greasy ropes. The acid-green quill that was her trademark lay snapped in half beside her. Those jewelled spectacles dangled from one ear, lenses cracked, and her crocodile tears had carved clean trails through the dirt on her cheeks.
In the looping image she knelt in the mud, arms wrapped around her head, rocking and whimpering. Every few seconds her mouth formed the same soundless shape, over and over, as if she were trying to scream but had forgotten how.
Michael Corner nearly dropped his pumpkin juice. "Merlin's saggy left—look at her! She's gone proper Loony Lovegood, hasn't she?"
Anthony Goldstein leaned over to get a better view, eyebrows shooting up. "Yesterday she was chasing first-years for quotes with that hideous Quick-Quotes Quill. Today… this. Someone's done a right number on her."
Michael turned to the fourth occupant of their little circle at the Ravenclaw table—the one who was calmly buttering toast as though the Prophet had announced a sale on Sugar Quills.
"Ethan, mate," Michael said, lowering his voice theatrically, "any idea who might've rearranged Skeeter's brain?"
Ethan took a slow sip of black coffee, dark eyes glittering with amusement. "I'd say the culprit is closer than you think."
Michael barked a nervous laugh. "Ha. Good one."
Ethan smiled. It was the same smile that made first-years cross to the other side of the corridor when they saw him coming—beautiful, cold, and just a little wrong.
Michael swallowed. "…You're joking, right?"
Ethan speared the yolk of his fried egg and watched the golden liquid ooze across the plate like molten sunlight. "Relax. Rita finally got her lifelong wish—she's front-page news. I bet deep down she's thrilled."
Michael decided he didn't want to pursue that line of thought any further. Something about Ethan's calm always felt like standing at the edge of a very high place with a very flimsy railing.
A sudden BANG echoed through the Great Hall as the oak doors slammed open. Professor Snape billowed in like a storm cloud given human form, black robes snapping behind him. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Conversations died mid-sentence.
He stalked straight to the Ravenclaw table and loomed over Ethan.
"Vincent," he hissed, voice dripping acid. "The Headmaster will see you. Now."
A ripple of delicious scandal swept the Hall. Heads swivelled. Whispers erupted the moment Ethan stood.
"Dumbledore wants him? Personally?"
"Bet it's about the Skeeter thing!"
"Ten Galleons says Vincent's the one who scrambled her!"
"Twenty says he walks out with an Order of Merlin for it."
Hermione Granger's voice carried from the Gryffindor table, sharp with worry. "He's only fourteen! They can't seriously drag a student into this!"
Ron snorted through a mouthful of bacon. "You act like Ethan needs protecting. I'm more worried about whatever poor sod did cross him."
Harry just stared at the doors long after they'd closed behind Ethan and Snape, a troubled frown creasing his forehead.
Ethan, meanwhile, followed Snape's swirling cape through the corridors, hands in his pockets, whistling softly—an annoyingly cheerful tune that made Snape's eye twitch.
At the gargoyle, Snape snarled, "Fizzing Whizzbee."
The statue leapt aside. They rode the spiralling staircase in silence until Snape spoke again, voice low and dangerous.
"Tell me, Vincent… you wouldn't happen to have helped yourself to ingredients from my private stores, would you? Lacewing flies, perhaps. Fluxweed. Boomslang skin."
Ethan blinked innocently. "Professor, I'm wounded. Do you really think I'd brew Polyjuice in my dorm? The fumes would ruin my hair."
Snape's lip curled. "I notice you didn't deny it."
"I didn't use Polyjuice," Ethan said, utterly sincere. "Scout's honour."
Technically true. Ageing Potion had worked just fine—Malfoy had owed him a favour since the Ergani skirt incident second year, and Draco's personal stock was top-notch.
Snape glared for another long second, then looked away with a frustrated huff. Fine. The boy hadn't lied. Yet.
They stepped off the staircase into chaos.
"—this Tournament is a circus and it ends now!" Minister Rufus Scrimgeour was roaring, mane-like hair practically bristling.
Barty Crouch Sr. stood opposite him, rigid, face the colour of old parchment. "The Goblet's contract is binding, Rufus. You know that as well as I do. Break it and the consequences—"
"Consequences?" Scrimgeour barked. "We have a Dark wizard waltzing through the Forbidden Forest turning reporters into drooling idiots! The Ministry is a laughingstock!"
Dumbledore sat behind his desk looking, for once, genuinely tired. Fawkes crooned a low, mournful note from his perch.
Snape cleared his throat. The argument cut off mid-shout.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, rising with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ethan. Thank you for coming so promptly."
Scrimgeour whirled, eyes narrowing at the fourth-year who had just strolled in like he owned the castle. "You're the Vincent boy."
"Guilty," Ethan said cheerfully.
Crouch's gaze flicked over him, calculating. "The one who supposedly saw the attacker."
"Supposedly," Ethan echoed, smile widening.
Scrimgeour took a step forward. "We're shutting the Tournament down, Dumbledore. Effective immediately."
Dumbledore's voice remained calm. "That is, unfortunately, impossible."
"Then I'll be taking a very close look at everyone who claims to have witnessed anything," Scrimgeour growled, eyes locking on Ethan. "Starting with you."
Ethan tilted his head, the picture of innocent cooperation. "Of course, Minister. Happy to help. Though fair warning—my memory's a bit… fuzzy on the details."
Behind him, Snape's eyes narrowed to slits.
Somewhere in the distance, Rita Skeeter rocked back and forth in a locked ward at St. Mungo's, whispering the same words over and over:
"He's still there… the boy with the smile… he's still watching…"
And in the Great Hall, students would argue for years about whether Ethan Vincent ever actually lied that day.
He didn't have to. The truth was so much more entertaining.
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