Ethan Vincent's presence filled the Ravenclaw common room with an unsettling energy. Sean, his face flushed with a mix of fury and confusion, struggled to keep his composure. For a fleeting moment, he couldn't tell if Ethan was genuinely answering his question or mocking him with that infuriatingly smug tone.
"Second," Ethan said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
He raised a second finger, and a chilling glint flickered in his cobalt-blue eyes. "Why do you assume I won't fight back?"
The words hung in the air, and a terrifying aura surged from Ethan, sweeping through the room like a storm. His piercing gaze locked onto Sean, gleaming with a manic intensity that set him apart from anyone ordinary. The air around him seemed to warp, bending like light refracting off a soap bubble, colors shifting in an eerie, mesmerizing dance.
The flames in the fireplace sputtered and crackled, flaring without a breeze. A sharp, acrid scent—nuts and minerals—flooded the lounge, overpowering the warm aroma of food. This was no ordinary moment; it was a riot of magic, raw and untamed.
Everyone felt it. Hair stood on end, hearts raced, as though lightning were about to strike. Even Professor Flitwick, usually so cheerful, grew solemn, his hand instinctively drifting to his wand.
Sean, caught in the epicenter of Ethan's magical outburst, felt his pupils contract and his body tense. A cold dread slithered up his spine. He'd always prided himself on his diligence, his cleverness, but now he realized there was more to this world than sharp minds. There were iron fists, and Ethan wielded one with terrifying ease.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Sean's voice cracked with panic, words stumbling out. "This is Hogwarts!"
He couldn't believe it—an eleven-year-old, maybe twelve, threatening him! Him, Sean, a senior student, losing his cool in front of his peers and club members. The shame burned hotter than failing to top an exam.
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Then, Ethan laughed.
It was a bright, disarming sound, like a spring breeze melting a frozen lake. His dazzling smile banished the cold menace in an instant, leaving only charm in its wake. "Senior, why so tense? I was only joking."
He clapped a hand on Sean's shoulder, the gesture almost brotherly, and spoke with deliberate calm. "I'm a reasonable guy. If no one crosses me, I don't cross them." His smile widened, but his words carried a veiled edge. "Senior, you don't want to end up like Mr. Malfoy, do you?"
The name conjured an image in everyone's minds: Draco Malfoy, once a haughty pureblood, now a shadow of himself. Since returning from summer break, he was a changed boy—no longer sneering at others or picking fights with Gryffindors. Even when Harry Potter's selection as a Quidditch Seeker sparked heated debates, Malfoy only watched from a distance, envy flickering in his eyes. Gone were his cries of "This isn't fair! I'll tell my father!"
What could break a boy so thoroughly in so short a time? Everyone shuddered, unwilling to dwell on the answer. And they all knew who was responsible: Ethan Vincent.
Sean stared at the smiling boy, his throat tightening as if squeezed by an invisible hand. He stumbled back two steps, seeing Ethan not as a classmate but as something otherworldly, incomprehensible. How could someone like this exist?
Professor Flitwick's voice cut through the tension, light but deliberate. "Alright, everyone, time to wind down!" He turned to Ethan, his tone cautious but curious. "Mr. Vincent, would you care to show us a bit of your skill? Or perhaps you'd prefer to rest?"
"I've got plenty of energy left," Ethan replied with a grin. He drew his wand, and with a fluid wave, it transformed into a sleek, elegant paintbrush—a flawless Transfiguration spell.
"Marvelous!" Professor Flitwick exclaimed, his eyes alight with excitement. "A perfect Transfiguration! I must award five points to Ravenclaw on Professor McGonagall's behalf!" Even he, a master of Charms, rarely saw such skill from a first-year. "If Professor McGonagall weren't so concerned for your safety, she'd be adding points herself."
Next, Ethan cast Avis, the non-offensive version. Golden birds burst into the air, their long tail feathers trailing like shimmering tassels. They swooped around the room, glowing like shooting stars, captivating the students. Gasps of awe filled the space as the flock danced in a radiant display.
Sean watched, his expression darkening. He couldn't deny Ethan's talent, and that only fueled his anger. "He's just a nobody," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I shouldn't waste my energy on him. I'll show him the gap between us."
Prefect Robert Hilliard and Penelope Clearwater exchanged a glance. Penelope's brow furrowed with concern. "Prefect, will he be alright?" she asked softly, referring to Sean.
Robert smirked. "Who do you mean by 'he'?"
Penelope blinked, caught off guard. Robert didn't elaborate, instead joining the other students crowding around Ethan, eager to chat. Penelope lingered, pondering his cryptic words.
In the end, Professor Flitwick awarded Ethan twenty points, neatly canceling out a deduction from Professor McGonagall. Some might call it favoritism.
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's office, the portraits of past headmasters lined the walls, some snoring softly, others feigning sleep while eavesdropping. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, chirped from its perch, its crimson feathers glowing faintly.
"Tea, coffee, or hot milk?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as he smiled at the tall, anxious woman before him.
"I'm not here for pleasantries, Albus," Professor McGonagall snapped, her lips pursed. "As I've said, Ethan Vincent is… different. There's a natural darkness in him."
She gestured sharply. "Those paintings of his—have you seen them, Albus? The ones in the corridor?"
Dumbledore nodded, unperturbed, stirring sugar cubes into his hot milk. "Oh, yes, I paused to admire them. Remarkable work. The first one, I believe, depicts ancient giants—raw, visceral, almost alive in its detail."
"But they're dangerous!" McGonagall countered, her voice rising. "Those paintings pull you in, make you feel things—too much. They could harm someone."
She hadn't forgotten the illusion they cast, so vivid it felt real. She'd seen her dream of a happy family, so warm, so tantalizingly close. It was a trap, one that could ensnare the unwary.
What had Dumbledore seen in those paintings? McGonagall didn't know, but she'd noticed how long it took him to snap out of it, as if he, too, had been reluctant to return to reality.
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