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"Oh my God!"
Harry's legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor.
He couldn't face this—he couldn't accept it.
Hermione stared at Ethan's lifeless face, her gaze locked onto his amber cat-like eyes, now dull and devoid of life.
Even in his final moments, Ethan had looked at her with quiet reassurance, as if trying to comfort her one last time.
Her hands and feet were ice-cold. The world around her had faded into silence.
She could hear nothing—only the image of Ethan's vacant eyes burned into her mind.
"What are you all doing? Don't just stand there—hide! The Death Eaters may be gone, but we cannot take any chances!"
Professor McGonagall's voice rang through the Gryffindor common room as she burst inside, reprimanding the students still gathered there.
But then she saw Ethan lying motionless on the floor.
Her words died in her throat.
The thought was too terrible to speak aloud.
"Ethan!"
Her grip tightened on her wand until it trembled.
The sheer shock of the moment had made even the Transformation Mistress falter.
The Gryffindor common room fell into oppressive silence. A suffocating fear spread among the students like wildfire.
Professor McGonagall swallowed hard and forced herself to speak again.
"I want everyone to go to the infirmary. Now."
The order came out stiffly, but her voice was steady.
Their minds numb, the students obeyed without question, moving mechanically—like puppets, like clockwork figures set into motion.
Only Hermione, Harry, and Ron remained frozen in place.
"Enough, children. You must go as well."
Professor McGonagall placed a firm hand on their shoulders and gently but insistently guided them out of the room.
At that moment, Dumbledore arrived.
"Minerva, I heard that a Death Eater infiltrated Gryffindor Tower?"
His voice was calm, but there was urgency in his step.
A deep, bleeding gash ran down his arm, staining the sleeve of his robe—a wound from Voldemort himself.
The curse on Dumbledore's hand had already weakened him, but even then, he had nearly held his ground.
Yet, just as it seemed Voldemort was about to press his advantage, the Dark Lord had suddenly stopped.
His expression had twisted into something unreadable before he and his followers vanished as abruptly as they had arrived.
Dumbledore turned to McGonagall, but she could only raise a trembling hand and gesture toward the open door.
His eyes fell upon Ethan.
Dumbledore's expression darkened.
Slowly, he stepped forward, kneeling beside Ethan's still form.
For a long moment, he simply looked at the boy's face.
Then, with the gentlest of touches, he reached out and closed Ethan's unseeing eyes.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
Dumbledore rose unsteadily and sank onto one of the sofas.
His shoulders, normally straight and unyielding, sagged.
At that moment, he looked old.
Word of Ethan's death spread quickly, and soon the corridor outside was filled with students and professors.
Some were wounded, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. They all stood in solemn silence, gazing at Ethan's lifeless body.
Then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.
A team of Aurors burst in.
Moody led the charge, his wand at the ready, with Tonks close behind.
"Damn it!" Moody growled, slamming his staff against the stone floor.
"The Death Eaters got away!"
Then he noticed the crowd—professors and students, standing stiffly in grim silence.
And then he saw Ethan.
"You're all gathered here—"
Moody started gruffly, ready to reprimand them, but he stopped mid-sentence.
Something was wrong.
His expression darkened.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice suddenly low and cautious.
The students standing in front instinctively stepped aside, clearing a path for Moody.
The moment he saw Ethan lying motionless on the floor, his jaw clenched.
"Oh my God," he muttered, slamming his cane against the ground.
Tonks, standing just behind him, peered over his shoulder.
When her eyes landed on Ethan, she immediately pushed past Moody.
"What's going on?" she demanded, her voice sharp with urgency.
She rushed to Ethan's side, kneeling beside him.
"Ethan? What's the matter with you?"
She grasped his shoulder, giving him a firm shake—but there was no response. Ethan would never answer her again.
"No... this—this can't be happening," she whispered, as if saying it aloud would undo reality.
"He's strong, he couldn't—"
"Tonks."
Dumbledore's voice was heavy with grief.
"Ethan died a hero, protecting his students. He was one of the bravest I have ever known."
"I don't care!" Tonks cried, her breath catching.
"I don't care if he was a hero! He's gone! He's—"
Her voice broke.
Then, as the weight of her own words crashed down on her, she swayed—then collapsed.
Dumbledore let out a long, weary sigh and stepped back as others rushed to catch her.
Hagrid, silent and sorrowful, stepped forward.
With great care, he knelt down and gently lifted Ethan's body.
Someone draped a sheet over him, covering his wounds, making it seem as though he were only sleeping.
Tears glistened in Hagrid's eyes as he carried Ethan away.
The crowd parted for him without a word.
One by one, students and professors removed their hats, bowing their heads in quiet mourning.
Though the corridor was full, not a single voice broke the silence.
Everyone grieved for Ethan.
--------
Other Side
Ethan felt... strange.
He was standing in a thick fog.
His hands ran over his chest. He remembered—he had been stabbed.
A short knife had pierced him. But now, there was nothing. No wound, no pain.
He looked around. The mist stretched endlessly in every direction. There was nothing else here.
So, he walked.
The ground beneath him was soft, covered in familiar grass.
A strange sense of recognition stirred in him, though he couldn't quite place it.
Then, as he passed beneath a stone archway, he stopped.
His breath caught.
He knew this place.
White Crow Vineyard.
The manor stood exactly as he had left it.
Even the deck of Gwent cards on the table remained untouched.
But it was too quiet.
No birds, no insects—no life.
Ethan wandered through the manor, searching for something—anything.
But there was nothing to find.
Just as he was about to retrace his steps, he froze.
A figure had appeared in the courtyard.
She was cloaked in black, her back turned to him, entirely absorbed in something before her.
Ethan approached cautiously.
The object she studied was... strange.
It was small—shaped like a child, curled up on the ground.
Its red, raw skin looked as if it had been peeled away. It whimpered, struggling for breath.
A shifting mass of gray-black tendrils coiled around it, tightening and twisting, as if trapping it in place.
Then, a voice spoke—not aloud, but inside Ethan's mind.
"This is Tom's soul. The last piece."
Ethan stiffened.
The woman turned.
And when she did, he saw her face—a skull, hollow-eyed and grinning.
"Tom," she mused, her voice as cold as a grave.
"The cunning one, the deceiver, always escaping death. But in the end, no one truly escapes me."
She exhaled slowly, as if savoring the moment.
"Even he is finally in my hands."
Ethan swallowed, the weight of her presence pressing down on him.
"If I may ask…" he said cautiously, sensing that this being was far beyond anything he had ever encountered.
"Who… are you?"