Oh—are you angels?
Ethan Vincent gazed at Harry Potter and Ron Weasley with mock astonishment, his hand dramatically clutching his chest as if his heart were melting.
"Thank you, my noble brothers! You've been an absolute lifesaver!"
Ethan flung his arms wide, enveloping the two young wizards in an exaggerated bear hug, all while a wry thought flickered in his mind: Whenever I'm teetering on the edge of losing my humanity, someone comes along to remind me I'm still among the living.
There were still good people in the world, after all.
With a grin that was equal parts charming and unsettling, Ethan said, "If it weren't for you two, I'd have probably gone after Filch and his mangy cat."
Harry and Ron froze, their shy, proud smiles morphing into masks of horror.
Ethan, no!
Filch might not be a professor, but he was still Hogwarts staff. Attacking him would be a far worse offense than scrapping with a classmate.
The two exchanged a glance, their eyes screaming the same thought: Classic Ethan. A living soul with the audacity of the dead—where others might merely fantasize, Ethan would actually act on his wild impulses.
The late hour wasn't exactly ideal for chit-chat. Footsteps echoed in the distance, and Harry and Ron quickly muttered their goodbyes.
"If you're free tomorrow, we could visit Hagrid's hut," Harry suggested. "Maybe ask him about that Cerberus and the package."
"Works for me," Ethan replied, tilting his head as if mulling it over. "I'm free after lunch. Shall we go then?"
"Deal!"
The two young wizards nodded eagerly, then scurried off, tiptoeing into the shadows. Ethan waved after them with a lazy smile, watching their figures vanish around the corridor's bend.
He turned—and froze. A beam of light hit him square in the face.
"Who's there?!"
Percy Weasley, Gryffindor Prefect, stood clutching a glowing glass lantern, his voice sharp with authority. It was no surprise he was on edge. Anyone would be rattled seeing a shadowy figure looming under a window in the dead of night.
Ethan turned his head slowly.
Moonlight and the lantern's glow illuminated his face, casting his features into sharp relief. His smile was handsome, refined, almost too perfect—like a mask painted with eerie precision.
Percy swallowed hard, his hand instinctively tightening around his worn wand.
But then, Ethan's voice cut through the tension, bright and casual. "Evening, Percy! Lovely night, isn't it?"
It was nearly one in the morning—hardly the time for cheerful greetings. Still, Percy exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He straightened, puffing out his chest in proper Prefect fashion.
"Do you realize what you're doing? Wandering the halls at night is against the rules, and I've caught you red-handed!"
Ethan blinked, his expression all innocence. "My apologies, Percy, but I was out on Filch's orders tonight. Just heading back to the dormitory now."
"Oh… right." Percy faltered, his bluster deflating. He had been informed about Ethan's detention, but the boy's unsettling presence had thrown him off.
Clearing his throat, Percy tried to regain his composure, hoping the darkness hid the flush creeping up his face. "Were you… alone? I could've sworn I heard voices just now."
Ethan's face didn't so much as twitch. "Just a ghost passing through."
Before Percy could press further, Ethan yawned dramatically, rubbing his eyes. "If we're done here, mind if I head back? My arms are killing me from polishing trophies all night."
In truth, he'd only polished one glass case for a special contribution award. The rest? Handled by a quick Scourgify spell.
For reasons Percy couldn't quite pinpoint, this first-year—years younger than him—had completely hijacked the conversation.
"Er, yes, fine. Go… go sleep," Percy mumbled, nodding stiffly.
Ethan flashed another polite, disarming smile, bid him farewell, and sauntered off with leisurely steps. Percy had no clue that just minutes ago, his own brother had broken half a dozen school rules and slipped away right under his nose.
The next morning, Ethan, usually the picture of disciplined early rising, sported dark circles under his eyes. But the real disaster was the morning's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
"Th-this scarf," Professor Quirrell stammered from the podium, his purple turban wobbling like a poorly balanced frisbee, "w-was g-given to me by an A-African p-prince when I d-defeated a re-reanimated zombie!"
At first, the class had been buzzing with excitement for Defense Against the Dark Arts. The subject promised danger and mystery—the Dark Arts! Sure, Hogwarts didn't let students dabble in dark magic, but learning to counter it was thrilling enough. The textbook, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, was a treasure trove of intrigue: terrifying Boggarts, bloodthirsty Vampires, mischievous Cornish Pixies. Spells like Expelliarmus, the Shield Charm, and bizarre counter-curses, like how to magically shove intestines back into someone hit by an Intestine-Pulling Charm (instead of explaining to a Muggle doctor why your organs were spilling out).
Ethan's favorite case was about a Muggle child whisked to another dimension by a monster—rumored to be linked to the Department of Mysteries' elevator, which supposedly descended into a cold, dark alternate realm. The boy's Muggle mother, desperate to communicate with her son, had strung fairy lights around her home, using their flickering to map out letters and positions. It was ingenious, inspiring even the Ministry of Magic, and became a classic case study.
Michael Corner, Ethan's roommate, found the story chilling, muttering it'd "haunt his dreams." He preferred the heroic exploits of Gilderoy Lockhart—especially the dashing, damsel-saving ones. Ethan hadn't the heart to shatter his illusions. In a year, Lockhart's true colors would be laid bare.
But back to the disaster at hand. No matter how thrilling the textbook, Professor Quirrell ruined it all. The classroom reeked of garlic, his lectures were a stuttering mess, and his explanations were incoherent. When pressed about how he'd defeated those monsters, he'd dodge with vague talk of weather.
Ethan slouched at his desk, the garlic stench assaulting his nose, Quirrell's droning battering his ears. His well-worn textbook—bought with his hard-earned coin—lay open before him, its pages mocking him. A vein pulsed at his temple.
This was torture. A waste of time. He'd paid for this class, and for what?
Professor Binns in History of Magic might drone like a monk chanting scriptures, but at least he taught something. Quirrell? He wasn't teaching a damn thing. Had the Dark Lord himself hexed his tongue to stop short of anything useful?
Ethan's patience, already frayed from staying up late to study the Erised spell, snapped. A dark, stormy aura seemed to radiate from him, his brain buzzing with exhaustion and irritation.
Bang.
The sharp scrape of his chair against the floor cut through Quirrell's ramblings. Every head in the room swiveled toward Ethan, who now stood, his presence commanding despite his youth.
Quirrell froze, then forced a stiff, bewildered smile. "M-Mr. Vincent? M-may I ask… d-do you have s-something to say?"
Ethan's lips curved into a polite, razor-sharp smile.
"Professor Quirrell," he said smoothly, "I believe you should pay me for sitting through this class."
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