Professor McGonagall's hands trembled.
She had never seen Dumbledore so unraveled.
During the Malfoy incident, she could dismiss it as a childish spat. But after the Halloween fiasco, the danger radiating from Ethan Vincent became impossible to ignore. His innate malice sent chills down her spine, stirring memories of a shadowy figure who vanished years ago...
"Professor Dumbledore, if we don't act now, Mr. Vincent might end up in Azkaban one day!"
Her urgent words echoed in the office. The portraits lining the walls could no longer stay silent, their whispers buzzing like restless bees.
"Azkaban? Hmph! Hogwarts is practically bursting with talent," sneered Phineas Nigellus Black, his portrait dripping with disdain.
Dumbledore paid the portraits no mind. He took a slow sip of his sweetened milk, the warmth sliding down his throat as his thoughts drifted back decades. Once, there had been another student, gifted like Ethan. But that boy was a master of deception, cloaking his venom in charm, like a serpent with dazzling scales.
Dumbledore had replayed those moments countless times. If he hadn't tried to force submission, if he'd shown more care from the start, could things have been different?
But those were futile regrets.
The only path now was to guide Ethan differently, to keep him from straying down that same dark road.
"As far as I know, Minerva," Dumbledore said measuredly, "Ethan hasn't done anything truly harmful."
"If fighting back against provocation is a crime, there'd be no Gryffindors left at Hogwarts."
Though, of course, Ethan was a Ravenclaw.
"What?"
Professor McGonagall's eyes widened in disbelief. "Malfoy deserved his comeuppance, fine. But what about Professor Quirrell? His teaching may be... lackluster, but he didn't provoke Ethan!"
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said with a faint smile, "it was Ethan's way of expressing dissatisfaction with Quirrell's methods."
McGonagall fell silent, stunned.
If she didn't know Ethan had parents, she'd swear he was Dumbledore's long-lost son, so blatant was the headmaster's defense.
"And let's not forget," Dumbledore continued, "Ethan ran to rescue Miss Granger and the others, didn't he?"
Though, knowing the boy, he likely just wanted to test a new spell.
"But—"
"Minerva," Dumbledore cut in gently, "let's wait until Professor Quirrell recovers. We'll decide Ethan's punishment based on his account."
McGonagall's brows shot up, but she nodded. "If that's the case... yes. Professor Quirrell is the primary victim. It should be his call."
Why had the conversation shifted so suddenly? Even if Quirrell was a pushover, he'd surely discipline a student who humiliated him publicly. McGonagall couldn't imagine him letting Ethan off lightly.
This time, Ethan would learn that Hogwarts still had rules.
Deep down, she saw potential in him. His cruel streak, his sharp edge—she chalked it up to youthful ignorance. With strict oversight and firm consequences, they could steer him back to the right path, sparing him from greater mistakes.
"By the way," Dumbledore added, "I hear Ethan's wand was successfully transfigured into a paintbrush. I didn't see it myself, but they say it's quite stunning."
"Congratulations, Minerva. Your Transfiguration class is about to produce another prodigy."
McGonagall's stern expression softened, a flicker of pride in her eyes. But it vanished just as quickly.
No.
She couldn't let herself go soft.
Dumbledore chuckled at her shifting expressions. "If there's nothing else, Minerva, this old man needs his rest."
Click.
The door closed, and silence reclaimed the office.
"Hogwarts isn't breeding another Dark Lord, is it? Each generation stronger than the last?" Phineas Black scoffed.
Dumbledore's smile was enigmatic, unshaken. "Who says only justice can defeat evil? Sometimes, a greater darkness consumes the lesser."
Black and white, striking in tandem.
Voldemort, if you dare return, your days are numbered.
Phineas recoiled at Dumbledore's grin, muttering under his breath. "Tch. Hogwarts is practically a dark wizard factory now. Should've stuck to pure-bloods. The world's gone to ruin."
--
To the brilliant Ethan,
I thought I'd outdone myself this Halloween. My Dementor act was chilling, earning the loudest screams yet.
[But your letter arrived, and I realized my imagination pales next to yours.]
[First, congratulations on having your exhibition preserved at Hogwarts for a time.]
[Though they made you remove your masterpiece, "A Dream of the South Branch," it's because of that I got to see it.]
In your painting, I saw a red-hatted gnome leaping with joy, vibrant fish darting through a rainbow, and a Thestral soaring freely against a boundless blue sky.
[And you, Ethan.]
I saw you on the lawn, painting with abandon, your hands and face smudged with color.
It felt extraordinary.
I sat on the grass, soft as a carpet, and closed my eyes. The breeze seemed to brush my cheeks, and I could almost hear the delighted cries of those creatures.
When I opened my eyes, reality returned, but the dream lingered.
[It's like a beautiful dream that stays with me, even after waking.]
This letter's getting long, but your paintings are incredible! They'll leave everyone in awe.
What do you say to publishing this in the next issue of The Quibbler?
[Waiting for your reply.]
[Yours, Luna]
--
My dear Luna,
You don't even need to ask.
[The answer will never change: I do.]
Your loyal friend,
Ethan
--
Ethan watched the owl carrying his letter vanish into the horizon, his heart soaring alongside it. Luna was his truest friend. He never imagined, after crossing into the world of Harry Potter, that he'd find such a kindred spirit in the girl others called "loony."
He gathered his things and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.
A week had passed since Halloween, but Ethan still felt eyes trailing him wherever he went. Like an angel strutting a runway, he drew every gaze. In the Great Hall, his presence was a pause button—conversations hushed, and stares followed, brimming with admiration, fear, awe, and respect.
Ethan Vincent's name now eclipsed even Harry Potter's.
"You know," Michael Corner said, grinning as he walked beside him, "some folks are whispering you're 'the next Dark Lord.' Hilarious, right?"
Ethan's lips curved into a silent, knowing smile.
A brief pause hung in the air before Michael, sensing the shift, changed tack. "And get this—some girls are so smitten they're practically starting a fan club! Haven't you noticed the pile of perfumed letters and cards by your bed every morning? Those senior girls are bold! Childhood sweethearts? Pfft. Women are terrifying!"
Michael shook his head, half-jealous, wishing he could take Ethan's place.
"I just think Hogwarts needs better security," Ethan said flatly, his tone cold enough to chill.
Michael's enthusiasm deflated. He didn't know who Ethan was writing to every morning, but he could already picture the heartbreak brewing in a few years.
What a guy, Michael thought, a mix of envy and amusement flickering through him.
---
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