Lucius Malfoy's lips curled into a sly smile as he witnessed Ethan Vincent and his son Draco "reconcile." Yet, beneath that polished exterior, a faint pang of regret gnawed at him. Seven hundred Galleons was no trifling sum, even for a man of his means. Over the years, he had funneled considerable wealth into You-Know-Who's schemes and cultivated a web of influential connections. While secret channels for procuring broomsticks existed, the loss of seven hundred Galleons—along with a rare Undetectable Extension Charm bag, not even available on the open market—stung deeply. Never before had he spent so lavishly on a child who was neither kin nor confidant.
But Lucius, seasoned in the art of investment, saw a spark of promise in Ethan. This boy could rise to prominence, perhaps even dominate the Ministry of Magic one day. His name might echo through the Wizarding World, revered and feared in equal measure. The House of Malfoy had already faltered once by aligning with the Dark Lord. Surely, this time, they would not misstep again?
This thought only deepened Lucius's frustration with his son. Draco, utterly oblivious, had squandered every opportunity to forge alliances with the right people. Harry Potter. Ethan Vincent. The very individuals Lucius had urged Draco to befriend, his son had managed to alienate entirely.
"Draco," Lucius snapped, his voice icy, "why haven't you apologized to Ethan yet?"
"S-sorry…" Draco muttered, head bowed, his voice barely audible.
Lucius's brow arched, ready to reprimand him further, but Ethan intervened with a disarming grin.
"No need to be so hard on Draco, Mr. Malfoy. We're friends, after all. No need for formalities." Ethan's eyes crinkled as he clapped Draco's shoulder with such enthusiasm that the boy flinched, trembling like a cornered snake under an eagle's gaze.
"Well then, we shall take our leave," Lucius said, nodding curtly at Ethan. His gaze slid to Draco, accompanied by a cold snort. "I must take my son home for a couple of days to reflect. It seems he hasn't adjusted to Hogwarts life and has been keeping company with… undesirable sorts."
Lucius's mind flicked to that insufferable girl, Pansy Parkinson. Pure-blood, yes, but utterly scatterbrained. He'd heard she'd been sent home for reflection as well. Good riddance.
As they turned to leave, a figure shuffled toward them—Professor Quirrell, still sporting his absurdly large purple turban, his posture hunched and timid, reeking of garlic. Lucius recoiled, his nose wrinkling in distaste.
"M-M-Mr. Malfoy!" Quirrell stammered, a strange glint flickering in his eyes. "I, I, I would like to invite—you to come to—"
"I'm sorry, but we haven't the time to waste," Lucius cut him off, oblivious to the subtle oddity in Quirrell's demeanor. With a dismissive wave of his cane, as if swatting a bothersome fly, he strode forward without a backward glance.
"Oh, and one more thing," Lucius added, pausing to cast a pointed look at Quirrell's turban. "Your turban smells rancid. I can't abide the thought of my son's professor concealing some affliction—Dragon Pox, perhaps?" Dragon Pox, a vile disease born of poor hygiene. "I'll propose to the other governors that we find you a more suitable position."
With that, Lucius swept away with Draco in tow, ignoring the itch creeping up his left arm.
Professor Quirrell stood frozen, his awkward smile stiffening as his body trembled. A closer look would have revealed a flicker of terror in his eyes.
Nearby, Ethan fought to suppress a laugh, pinching his palm to keep from erupting. Lucius Malfoy, mocking Lord Voldemort to his face, calling him a Dragon Pox-ridden wretch who couldn't show himself! The man's biting sarcasm was unmatched.
As if to ease the tension, Quirrell turned to Ethan with a forced smile. "Mr. V-V-Vincent, c-congratulations on receiving sponsorship from Malfoy…"
Ethan raised an eyebrow, his tone playful yet sharp. "Sponsorship? Hardly. This is compensation for my emotional distress."
Quirrell managed a weak, "Haha," unsure who exactly owed whom for emotional distress.
Clutching his money bag, Ethan felt a surge of glee. Seven hundred Galleons! He was already plotting a spree on art supplies. But then he caught Michael Corner's sour expression.
"Ethan, oh Ethan," Michael said, shaking his head with mock sorrow. "How could you take Malfoy's money? You're tainted now, no longer the pure Ethan we knew!"
Seven hundred Galleons! Michael's jealousy burned so fiercely he could feel his very cells splitting apart. Weren't you supposed to lead us against the enemy? How did you end up cozying up to them?
Ethan chuckled, his smile indulgent, like an elder humoring a child. "Michael, think about it. Malfoy's wealth was plundered from everyone else. If I take his money and use it to benefit others, isn't that just returning what's rightfully theirs? Someone has to bear the infamy. Why not me? I'll carry that burden."
Michael blinked, stunned. That… actually made sense. Ethan's sacrifice was noble, enduring envy and scorn for the sake of others, all for mere dirty money.
Ethan gave Michael's shoulder a satisfied pat. A sharp mind, this one. He enjoyed friends with such insight.
Leaving Michael to mull over his words, Ethan turned away, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. Plan complete. What an unexpected windfall. Rest assured, he'd put this money to good use—say, a thrilling (or rather, deeply moving) art exhibition for Halloween. "Heh, heh heh heh…" His soft chuckle sent a shiver through the nearby students, who instinctively stepped back as he sauntered toward the owlery to place his order.
Oh, and he'd pick up a few odd trinkets for Luna while he was at it. Perhaps a reusable Gnome Guillotine—palm-sized, portable, educational, and perfect for a child's enlightenment.
The path ahead was clear.
Monday evening, Ethan trailed Filch to the Trophy Room for detention. Moonlight spilled through the windows, bathing his face in an ivory glow. The corridor was silent, save for the echo of their footsteps and the soft padding of Mrs. Norris, Filch's bony, dull-furred cat. Her orange-red eyes gleamed in the moonlight, their glassy sheen almost otherworldly.
Click. Filch unlocked the Trophy Room door, releasing a wave of musty air and a cloud of dust as it creaked open.
"This room's reserved for troublemakers like you," Filch sneered, his grin dripping with malice. "Tonight, you'll clean every inch of it with a rag—no magic allowed!"
But Ethan barely registered the words. His gaze was locked on a tall, cloth-draped object by the window, blocking the moonlight. Beneath the fabric, claw-shaped supports hinted at something hidden. For reasons he couldn't name, his magic stirred within him, rippling like a disturbed pond. An urge to pull back the cloth surged in his chest, undeniable and fierce.
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