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"Look at the lake! Everyone, look at the lake!" Luna cried excitedly, pointing toward the water.
A few wizards instinctively followed her gaze, but within moments, more and more stood up, their faces shifting from confusion to shock.
The once-calm surface of the Black Lake now swirled with an inexplicable vortex.
A cluster of merfolk hovered nearby, chattering in hushed tones as if witnessing something beyond human comprehension.
Then, a strange presence made itself known.
Though nothing could be seen, everyone felt it—an invisible force climbing out of the lake.
Some of the sharper-eyed students gasped.
Faint, shimmering hoofprints appeared on the water's surface, as if an unseen horse were walking across it.
The invisible creature strode onto the shore, its hooves pressing into the grass, bending the blades with every step.
A hushed murmur spread through the crowd as realization dawned. The hoofprints moved steadily toward the coffin where Ethan lay.
The moment stretched, tense and uncertain—until suddenly, Ethan sat up with a deep gasp, his chest rising as he breathed in the crisp night air.
Despite their expectations, many still shrieked in fright.
Tonks reacted first. With a cry of joy, she shot toward Ethan like a cannonball, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
Then came Hermione, Harry, Ron, Luna—one after another, they rushed forward, embracing Ethan in a chaotic, joyful heap.
"Tonks—enough, enough!" Ethan wheezed, struggling as she nearly crushed him.
Her forehead had slammed into his chest with the force of a battering ram.
Finally, he managed to stop her, pressing his hands against her shoulders before she could deal any more damage.
"Ethan, what happened? How—how are you—?" Tonks stammered breathlessly.
"It's nothing," Ethan said with a small smile, glancing toward Dumbledore in the distance.
"Just… a rather unique journey."
Dumbledore met his gaze, understanding flickering in his wise blue eyes.
He gave a slow, knowing nod.
That night, Hogwarts erupted in celebration.
The Black Lake became the heart of an impromptu feast—warm, lively, and brimming with laughter.
Students and professors alike gathered to welcome Ethan back.
Fireworks shot into the air, leaving brilliant streaks of color across the sky.
House-elves and pixies darted between the revelers, carrying trays stacked with pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhiskey.
Others balanced precarious piles of pies and sandwiches, offering them to anyone within reach.
For the first time in what felt like ages, everyone reveled in the joy of the moment.
Then, the sky split with a voice.
Cold. High-pitched. Clear as glass.
"I know you are preparing to resist."
The words came from everywhere and nowhere, as though the very air carried them.
The laughter died in an instant.
Screams rippled through the crowd. Students huddled together, eyes darting in all directions, searching for the unseen speaker.
"Your efforts are useless," the voice continued.
"You are not my opponents. I have no wish to spill your blood. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I would rather avoid unnecessary deaths."
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
"Hand over the Deathly Hallows, and none of you will be harmed. Do as I say, and I will ensure the school remains untouched. Cooperate, and you will be… rewarded."
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the voice faded, swallowed by the night.
A dreadful hush fell over the students. Some began to cry.
Dumbledore rose to his feet, his voice ringing with authority.
"All students, return to your dormitories immediately! The professors will ensure your safe departure from Hogwarts!"
The celebration was over. Darkness had come knocking once more.
The professors acted swiftly, ushering the remaining students away from the battlefield. Within moments, the lawn lay eerily empty.
"Alright—activate the guardians!" Professor McGonagall commanded.
A thunderous crash echoed through the castle as statues and suits of armor sprang to life, leaping from their pedestals with resounding clangs.
"Hogwarts is under threat!" McGonagall's voice rang out.
"Defend the borders, protect us, and serve your school!"
The enchanted guardians charged forward in a deafening rush—knights in gleaming armor wielding swords and spiked chains, towering figures carved from stone, and even animal-shaped statues, all surging past Ethan with unwavering purpose.
Professors and Aurors took their positions, standing in tense silence as they awaited the inevitable confrontation.
Tonks slipped quietly to Ethan's side, her hair now a vivid pink once more, reflecting the joy of his return.
"Ethan," she whispered, gripping his hand tightly.
"You have to survive, okay?"
"I will," Ethan murmured, squeezing her hand in reassurance.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting Hogwarts in the dim glow of dusk.
Then, the silence was shattered.
Explosions erupted in the distance, followed by the sudden appearance of Death Eaters, their cloaks billowing as they emerged from the darkness.
At their center stood Voldemort—young, yet terrifying, his expression twisted with cold fury. He scanned the gathered defenders before his sharp gaze landed on Dumbledore.
"Give me the Deathly Hallows," he demanded, his voice cutting through the night.
"I only want the Hallows."
Dumbledore remained unshaken.
"I've already told you, Tom. You will get nothing."
Voldemort's face contorted in rage.
"Then I'll take them myself!"
His red eyes flickered toward Ethan, and for the first time, a flash of confusion crossed his features.
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" he sneered.
Then, his lips curled into a cruel smile.
"No matter—I'll just kill you again."
He raised his wand, and a sharp, eerie whistle sliced through the air.
With a collective shriek, the Death Eaters surged forward, colliding with the enchanted guardians in a cacophony of clanging metal and shattering stone.
Above the battlefield, Voldemort took to the sky, his robes billowing as he lunged toward Dumbledore.
Fawkes dived first, his fiery wings glowing in the twilight. With a furious screech, he slashed at Voldemort's face, forcing the Dark Lord to raise a shimmering barrier just in time.
Voldemort swiped at the phoenix with a curse, but Fawkes was faster, dodging effortlessly.
Dumbledore seized the opening, flicking his wand. A fiery whip cracked through the air, hurtling toward Voldemort.
Voldemort twisted mid-air, barely evading the strike.
Ethan saw his chance. He lifted his crossbow, aimed, and fired.
Voldemort barely paid the incoming bolt any mind, confident that his shield would deflect such a crude attack.
He was wrong.
The enchanted arrow sliced through his protective enchantment as if it were parchment.
Voldemort's eyes widened in shock as the bolt pierced his back, bursting out through his stomach.
Where it struck, his flesh ignited, fire spreading like a curse.
He let out a strangled cry of pain, clutching at the wound.
The crossbow bolt was no ordinary weapon—it was crafted from anti-magic metal, designed to pierce even the most formidable spells.
For a moment, the battlefield stilled as the impossible unfolded before them.
Then, to everyone's horror, Voldemort grabbed the smoldering bolt and yanked it free, utterly unfazed by the agony.
The moment the arrow left his body, his wounds began to mend—skin knitting itself back together, the flames vanishing as though they had never been.
A slow, cruel grin spread across his face.
"I am immortal," Voldemort declared, his laughter echoing through the night.
Ethan's grip tightened on his weapon, his mind racing. How do you fight someone who can't die?
Then, like a whisper in the wind, a voice brushed against his ear—Lady Death's voice.
She revealed Voldemort's secret to him.
At that moment, Dumbledore struck again, seizing the brief hesitation caused by Voldemort's injury.
With a flick of his wrist, the fiery whip coiled around Voldemort's body, yanking him from the sky and slamming him into the earth.
Fawkes let out a triumphant cry as he swooped down, talons flashing.
Ethan didn't hesitate—he rushed forward, crossbow at the ready.
But Dumbledore was weakening.
Voldemort, his fury uncontained, was already rising again.
The battle was far from over.