"You?!"
Barty Crouch Sr. clenched his fists so hard the knuckles went white. The perpetual severity of his face had turned an alarming shade of crimson.
For one brittle second, the air in the office seemed to crackle with imminent explosion.
Ethan flicked a lazy glance toward Rufus Scrimgeour, whose jaw was set like granite. A glint of genuine appreciation sparked in Ethan's eyes. Good. He'd backed the right horse after all. This one had spine—far more than that bumbling clown Fudge.
Still, Crouch wasn't wrong. If the Tournament could simply be cancelled, the original story would never have limped on after everyone knew Harry had been entered against his will. Besides… Ethan's Soul Cauldron ritual rather depended on a certain Dark Lord's enthusiastic cooperation.
He looked left, then right, and beamed with helpful enthusiasm.
"Why don't you two just duel it out?" he suggested brightly. "Last wizard standing gets to decide the Goblet's fate. I can offer a full range of atmospheric venues! Azkaban-cell chic, blazing infernal pits, underworld river of souls, writhing-kraken nightmare—you name it. Limited-time offer also includes one-click burial service, no extra charge."
He rubbed his hands together like a eager salesman. "Well? Tempted?"
Scrimgeour: "…" Crouch: "…"
"I may have spoken hastily," Scrimgeour said, voice flat. "No, no—the fault was entirely mine," Crouch added with sudden, excruciating politeness.
Scrimgeour turned to Dumbledore and Ethan. "Regarding the Triwizard Tournament, perhaps the two of you should… reconsider." He adjusted his bowler hat, gave a curt nod, and marched out.
Crouch exhaled through his teeth, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience, and followed suit. At the door he paused beside Ethan, mouth opening and closing as though words were fighting to escape. Worry and something dangerously close to pleading flickered in his eyes. In the end he said nothing and left.
Silence settled, thick enough to chew.
Only three remained: Ethan, Dumbledore, and Snape.
"Our new Minister does have a temper," Dumbledore remarked mildly, fishing a bright pink sweet from the pile on his desk. He popped it into his mouth and crunched.
Ethan could have sworn the sweet wriggled on its way down.
Snape's face performed a slow-motion contortion usually reserved for first-years who'd exploded their cauldrons.
"Chirp… chirp…" Fawkes gave a nervous little trill and tried to burrow deeper into his perch, folding flame-colored wings tight, as if distance alone could save him from the human-shaped catastrophe standing beneath him.
Only after the suspicious strawberry-cockroach cluster had been thoroughly vanquished did Dumbledore speak again.
"Ethan," he said gently, peering over his half-moon spectacles, "our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor appears to have vanished this morning. Any idea where he might have gone?"
Those twinkling blue eyes locked onto Ethan's—deep, ancient, unreadable as the sea.
Snape folded his arms. "I suggest you tell the truth, Mr. Vincent." A pause. "And I suspect you know something about that attack on Rita Skeeter as well."
Ethan let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, then smiled like a cat who'd swallowed the entire aviary.
"I never imagined you two would take such a keen interest in my little hobbies," he said warmly. "I'm touched—truly."
Dumbledore & Snape: "…"
We are not.
"But since you ask so nicely," Ethan continued, "I'll spare you the suspense. Your previous Defense professor? Barty Crouch Junior wearing an exceptionally good Polyjuice disguise."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees.
Dumbledore's shoulders stiffened. Snape's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Barty Crouch Junior?" Dumbledore repeated hoarsely. "The Death Eater who supposedly died in Azkaban?"
"Exactly," Ethan chirped. "He's the one who put Rita in the hospital and then scarpered. Brilliant impersonation, by the way—fooled everyone. Very rude of him."
Dumbledore's face aged ten years in a heartbeat. "To think he was here, under my roof… I have failed in my duty."
Ethan waved a carefree hand. "Oh, and one more tiny detail—Voldemort's planning to use Harry as the guest of honor for his big resurrection party during the third task."
Dumbledore & Snape: "???"
The old wizard actually shot to his feet, beard bristling like an offended hedgehog.
Even the portraits gaped. Phineas Nigellus Black let out a bark of incredulous laughter. "My my, the most peaceful generation indeed. Dark Lords strolling through the corridors, ancient horrors loitering in my office—Hogwarts has standards, you know!"
Snape's voice came out a strangled croak. "He's… resurrecting? How do you even—"
He stopped, stared at Ethan's serene, smiling face, and felt the familiar chill crawl up his spine. This boy was a walking abyss wearing a Ravenclaw tie.
Dumbledore recovered first. With trembling fingers he drew a long silver strand of memory from his temple and dropped it into the Pensieve. It was, by far, the thickest strand Ethan had ever seen.
"Perhaps the Tournament must be stopped after all," the Headmaster murmured. "Yet the magical contract…"
Ethan's grin turned sharp enough to cut glass.
"Contracts are made to be shattered," he said. "Let the Tournament continue—make it bigger, louder, more spectacular than ever. And then I'll rewrite the ending myself."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then—unexpectedly—smiled like dawn breaking.
"Very well, my boy. You shall have whatever you need. Forbidden texts, rare ingredients—name it, and it's yours."
Snape's eyebrow performed an Olympic-level twitch. "The Ministry will never—"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Oh, I believe even Rufus will grant an old man one small favor." He winked at Ethan. "Especially when the request comes from you."
Ethan swept into an elegant bow. "Your support is noted and appreciated, Headmaster. You won't regret it. You're about to watch the sun rise."
With Dumbledore's resources at his disposal, the final painting would be finished far ahead of schedule.
He turned to leave, then paused, as if remembering something pleasant.
"By the way," he added conversationally, "during the third task you'll get to see your sister again."
The effect was instantaneous.
Dumbledore froze, breath catching. "Ariana…?"
Even Snape went very still, black eyes wide with sudden, painful hope—because if Ariana could return, then maybe—
Ethan's voice softened, just a fraction. "The dead don't come back whole, sir. Please keep your expectations… modest." He snapped his fingers; a black top hat materialized in his hand. With a showman's flourish he bowed once more and stepped through the doorway into shadow.
Snape exhaled shakily. "Merlin's beard. I feel like a Muggle who just lost a duel to a first-year."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the empty air where Ethan had been. "No threats. No demands. Yet he has us both dancing to his tune… Ethan Vincent—admirable, or terrifying? I'm no longer certain I know the difference."
Just then Ethan's head poked back through the darkness.
"Oh! Almost forgot." He clicked his tongue. "I'm keeping Junior, but you can have the original back."
The wardrobe in the corner burst open. With a loud THUD, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody was unceremoniously dumped onto the carpet like a sack of turnips, clutching—of all things—a half-finished wooden dragon carving.
"Oi!" Moody roared, scrambling upright and brandishing the sculpture at Ethan. "A little warning next time, you lunatic! I nearly snapped its neck!"
Then he registered his audience: Dumbledore and Snape, both staring as though a blast-ended skrewt had just asked for tea.
Moody flushed crimson, hastily tucking the carving behind his back.
"That impoundment cell was boring," he growled. "A man's got to do something with his hands."
Ethan was already gone, his laughter echoing faintly down the corridor.
Dumbledore recovered first, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome back, Alastor. You're looking… remarkably healthy."
Moody snorted, dropping the wooden dragon with a clatter. The magical eye whirred furiously.
"Right then," he barked. "Someone tell me what in the nine hells is going on around here. This time nobody's taking me alive."
In the distance, Ethan Vincent strolled through the castle, whistling, already sketching the final strokes of a masterpiece that would burn away the darkness forever.
Or plunge the world into a brand new kind.