Little Hangleton, Riddle Manor.
The great hall lay shrouded in gloom. Only a feeble orange flame sputtered in the hearth, pushing back the damp chill that seeped through the cracked windows.
[You failed… Barty.]
The voice that drifted from the high-backed sofa was dry and rasping, like an old man breathing his last. Lord Voldemort turned his head with deliberate slowness, red eyes narrowing behind the haze of his ruined vision. They settled on the figure kneeling on the cold stone floor.
Disgust twisted his withered features.
[You squandered the perfect opportunity… Useless!]
"I beg forgiveness, my Lord—" Barty Crouch Jr. pressed his forehead to the ground, voice trembling. "I miscalculated—"
If Voldemort had not been so blinded by pride, he might have noticed the wrongness of it: the most fanatically devoted of his servants, the man who had once called him father, should have been crawling forward on broken knees, pleading for one more chance. Instead, Barty remained perfectly still, a respectful three paces away.
But the Dark Lord only looked away in revulsion. There was another presence in the room far more worthy of his attention.
Leaning against the desk stood a tall figure draped head to toe in black robes, face hidden behind a smooth, pure-white mask. An aura of quiet menace clung to him like frost.
This was the enigmatic "Mr. Lamp," the wildcard who had appeared from nowhere and swiftly climbed to the top of Britain's most-wanted list. Voldemort's greatest asset—and the one he understood the least.
How marvelous it would be, Voldemort thought, if this creature were truly his to command. Compared to him, Barty Crouch was little more than a yapping dog.
The Dark Lord drew a rattling breath. [The third task is our final chance. Ignore Ethan Vincent for now. Bring me Harry Potter. Nothing else matters.]
As long as that monstrous boy was not provoked, he would not interfere.
"Mr. Lamp" twirled his wand idly between gloved fingers. "Child's play," he said, voice light, almost bored. "I've already turned the Cup into a Portkey. The instant a Champion touches it, they'll be delivered straight to your father's graveyard."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"I trust this time you will not disappoint me."
The wand in his hand stopped spinning. Its tip now pointed directly at Voldemort's chest—an unspoken threat that required no spell to be felt.
Voldemort's lipless mouth twitched. […Naturally.]
His voice had involuntarily softened, almost deferential.
[Once I regain my body, we will drown the world in darkness together. Muggles and Mudbloods will choke on their own blood. All will kneel. And you…] His red eyes gleamed with feverish anticipation. [You will bathe in slaughter until the screams become music.]
The masked figure tilted his head, as though savoring the image. Voldemort saw nothing suspicious in the gesture—only the pure, uncomplicated madness he expected from a true believer.
Perfect.
He had read the man correctly. Only someone who wanted to watch the world burn for the pleasure of it could radiate that depth of darkness.
Of course, Voldemort had kept one card hidden: the exact details of the resurrection ritual. A prudent man always kept an escape route.
Damn it all—if only Pettigrew hadn't been killed by that Vincent brat, he wouldn't be forced to rely on this unpredictable lunatic.
Hatred flared anew. [Ethan Vincent…] he hissed, the name dripping venom. [The moment I rise, I will flay you piece by piece and feed you to Nagini.]
The curse hung in the air like graveyard mist.
Beneath the white mask, "Mr. Lamp" paused—then his voice brightened with theatrical glee.
"I can't wait."
Perfect. The Soul Cauldron would soon be complete.
A soft hiss slithered across the floor. Cold scales brushed over Ethan's instep. He glanced down into Nagini's unblinking crimson eyes. The great serpent flicked her tail against his calf—once, twice—a warning and a greeting both.
Ethan smiled behind the mask and scratched gently under her jaw.
Hogwarts, meanwhile, thrummed with anticipation.
In the Durmstrang dormitory, Viktor Krum polished his wand with the same reverence he showed his broom. "Ethan Vincent," he muttered, eyes burning. "This time I take the Cup… and then I take you."
Hufflepuff common room smelled of earth and warm bread. Cedric Diggory sat alone by the fire, turning his wand over in his hands.
"Magic isn't only spells and wand-waving," he whispered. "Transfiguration, artifacts, potions… even blade and shield."
He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and poured magic into the holly wood.
Light flared. Wind stirred his hair. When he opened his eyes again, the wand had become a slender, gleaming sword of pale silver.
Cedric grinned. Krum wouldn't be the only one with surprises this time.
Gryffindor common room was chaos and laughter. Fred Weasley leapt victorious from the couch, fists raised. "Read it and weep, brother! Rock beats scissors!"
George tackled him anyway. They rolled across the carpet while younger students cheered the brawl on.
Harry watched, grinning—until a cold, triumphant voice announced from the chessboard: "Checkmate."
Bang! His king was bludgeoned into splinters by Ron's gleeful queen.
Harry groaned. "That's the hundred and twelfth time."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "You lasted twelve moves longer than yesterday! Progress!"
Harry eyed the board warily. The pieces Ethan had sent him for his birthday weren't ordinary chessmen; they glowed faintly blue and fought like demons possessed. Ron had received self-narrating adventure books with tiny moving figurines—now the most coveted items in Gryffindor—and refused to trade.
Hermione leaned over. "Ethan gave you those for a reason, Harry. Keep playing."
Harry sighed and began resetting the massacre.
Winter melted into spring. The Whomping Willow shook snow from its branches; the Giant Squid played tag with the tiny squid Ethan had gifted it. Time raced forward until, suddenly, the final task was upon them.
Deep beneath the castle, in the Room of Requirement transformed into a blazing forge—
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Golden fire bloomed in the darkness. Ethan swung the massive silver hammer one final time.
CLANG!
Light exploded outward, racing across the carved serpents on the pillars and making their stone eyes seem to blink.
He exhaled, wiped sweat from his brow, and lifted the finished artifact: a flawless hand-mirror of black glass rimmed in silver.
[Mirror of the Lost – Complete] [Upgraded Effect: Drag any reflected soul into an inverted pocket of reality. Within that space, their senses are yours to twist.]
Ethan's reflection smirked back at him.
"Lord Voldemort," he murmured, voice soft as silk and sharp as a scalpel, "I've prepared the perfect stage for your resurrection."
Whether the ritual performed on it would be his… well. That was the punchline.
He slipped the mirror away and flicked his wrist. Two new cards materialised—freshly forged explosives for the finale.
Then he raised his hand, palm up, and beckoned the empty air.
The void rippled. From the darkness extended a single colossal marble finger—easily as long as Ethan was tall—moving with impossible grace. It lowered itself until he could lay his hand upon it.
"I promised you truth, Ariana," he said gently. "Today you see what a real champion looks like."
The finger withdrew, leaving behind a storm of wild magic that crackled like lightning.
Tier 3 · Purple Epic acquired.
Ethan lifted his gaze to the ceiling, sapphire eyes blazing through the gloom.
"Voldemort's only the appetiser," he whispered. "Next course: destiny itself."
Somewhere high above, something ancient and vast seemed to blink.
Ethan felt the weight of its regard—like an ant sensing the shadow of a descending boot.
He laughed, low and exhilarated, the sound both beautiful and terrifying.
"Let's see who squishes whom."
Evening fell. Trumpets blared across the Quidditch pitch, half-drowned beneath roaring crowds. A monstrous maze of thorn and crimson roses sprawled where the pitch had been.
The Champions stepped forward: Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, and—after a brutal tournament of rock-paper-scissors—Fred Weasley.
Hufflepuff chanted Cedric's name like a war drum. His father wept openly in the stands.
Dumbledore raised his wand. "Sonorus!"
The noise dimmed.
"The rules are simple," he called. "First Champion to reach the Triwizard Cup claims eternal glory. And—as with previous tasks—the victor may challenge Mr. Ethan Vincent himself, who awaits at the very centre."
Krum's eyes narrowed to slits. Harry swallowed. Fred cracked his knuckles and grinned like a madman.
Dumbledore drew breath to declare the task open—
BOOM!
Filch's cannon went off early, showering the sky in premature fireworks. The old caretaker shrugged at the glare Dumbledore sent him.
In the Slytherin stands, Draco Malfoy smirked—then his expression faltered. His father's latest letter had mentioned the Dark Mark burning hotter on his arm. He stared into the maze, lips pressed thin.
Win, Vincent. Just win.
Cedric entered first. The thorns closed behind*The thorns closed behind him like a hungry mouth.
At the heart of the maze lay a wide circular clearing bathed in pale moonlight. Row upon row of giant playing cards stood at attention—every face a heart. They gleamed like polished armour.
A shadow streaked overhead and landed with earth-shaking force.
BOOM.
Dust billowed. When it settled, a titanic knight in full black plate knelt in the centre, shield broader than a carriage door, halberd longer than a broom handle. Inside the helm was only darkness.
Tier 3 · Golden Legendary: Black Soul Guard.
From the shadows behind the card soldiers stepped Ethan, hood drawn low, smiling the gentle, terrible smile that made first-years cross to the other side of the corridor.
He spread his arms like a gracious host.
"Welcome, dear Champions," he called, voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. "You've come so far to rescue the princess."
He gestured to the empty air where the Cup would appear.
"But I'm afraid the garden doesn't like trespassers."
The card soldiers snapped to attention, edges glinting like swords.
Ethan's smile widened, all teeth and delight.
"Turn them into fertiliser, won't you? Roses do love to drink blood."
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