Perhaps noticing the flicker of suspicion in Ethan's eyes, Professor Slughorn suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Ethan's arms with a desperate, trembling grip.
"Don't worry! Just one more time! If I can get just one more spark of divine inspiration, I know I can invent the Blood-Curse Potion! I'm certain of it!"
Ethan's eyes shifted, casting a cold, sideways glance at the hands clutching his sleeves. Slughorn flinched as if burned, hurriedly pulling his hands back and tucking them away.
Only then did Ethan speak, his voice slow and deliberate. "You should know, Professor, that Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem isn't some magical Q&A machine. It only amplifies the wearer's existing wisdom."
"Or rather, it clarifies your train of thought," Ethan continued, his tone clinical. "Wearing it repeatedly is useless—"
"But it's the only way now!" Slughorn roared, his voice cracking as he interrupted. Then, catching himself, he shot Ethan a timid, fearful look and lowered his voice to a pathetic whisper. "Please, let me try, Mr. Vincent... I... I don't want to die like this, nameless and forgotten."
Slughorn shuddered. Clearly, the tremors rocking the foundations of the castle outside had taken a toll on his nerves.
Ethan stared at the old professor, his expression unreadable. Then, he abruptly turned his head, his gaze sharp as a hawk's as it swept across the rows of jars and ingredients lining the shelves. He began to mutter under his breath, a rhythmic, haunting cadence.
"Mandrake can stimulate the activity of inert draughts... dried African Striped Snake skin can induce metamorphic effects... scarlet Rosehips... oh, that's a bold idea."
A flurry of inspiration sparked in Ethan's mind, his cobalt-blue eyes vibrating slightly with intensity. Within seconds, a clear, melodic voice escaped those elegantly curved lips.
"Two."
"Huh?"
Ethan turned back, his gaze pinning the old professor to the spot. He pointed a finger at two of the seven ingredients on the table, speaking with absolute certainty. "Rosehips and the blood of a Dawn Golden Chicken. One of these two is the final, correct answer."
Slughorn gaped at Ethan, his mouth hanging open. He wiped a thick bead of sweat from his brow and rasped, "Merlin's beard, for a moment there, you looked exactly like Lily..."
"...Regrettably, even I can't be sure which one it is," Ethan said, arching an eyebrow. "We only have one shot at this. It seems we'll have to take a bit of a gamble."
As he spoke, Ethan flicked his wrist. With a flourish like a Muggle stage magician, a shimmering, silver crown appeared in his hand.
Watching the professor's eyes go wide and glassy, Ethan enunciated every word: "And that gamble... is putting on Ravenclaw's Diadem to find the answer."
"I think, perhaps, it would be better if I wore it—"
"Let me do it!" the old professor shouted. He immediately recoiled, peeking at Ethan's reaction with a submissive air. "Please, let me complete this final step, Mr. Vincent...! You haven't been involved in the entire brewing process; I fear you might miss the subtle details... This is my life's ambition! I must complete this potion perfectly, from start to finish... I beg of you, Headmaster!"
Ethan stared at Slughorn for a long beat. Then, slowly, he reached out and handed over the Diadem.
Instantly, a burst of light exploded in Slughorn's eyes.
"Oh! Thank you, Mr. Vincent! Thank you!" He babbled his gratitude, cradling the Diadem as if it were a holy relic, his eyes never leaving the silver artifact. It was as if he held his future glory and status in the palms of his hands.
Taking a deep breath, with a mixture of hesitation and frantic greed, he lowered the Diadem onto his head.
The silver crown erupted in a blinding flash! Slughorn reeled back as if he'd been punched in the face, collapsing heavily into a chair Ethan had conjured. He slipped instantly into a deep coma.
[...Yet another fool seduced by the Diadem, just like me.]
A ghostly, blue-tinged silhouette shimmered into existence. The pearl-white face of Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, appeared beside Ethan. She drifted close to his ear, her voice a soft, condemning whisper.
[You shouldn't have done that, Eagle of Ravenclaw. You shouldn't have allowed this man to be led astray, to be swallowed by the Diadem's hunger for desire... He will only descend into madness; he will not bring you the result you seek. This serves you no purpose.]
As she spoke, Helena's expression darkened with a touch of grief. In the slumped figure of the old professor, she clearly saw the shadow of her own tragic past.
However, the corners of Ethan's mouth quirked upward.
"You don't know me yet, Miss Helena."
To Helena's confusion, Ethan waved his hand and conjured a gleaming, silver scalpel. He pressed the cold edge of the blade against the old professor's temple.
Smiling with a chilling sort of charm, he whispered, "I'm a down-to-earth painter, not a gambler. I never leave my work to the whims of fate."
"I create the results I want with my own two hands."
Before the words had even faded, the scalpel sliced into Slughorn's forehead as easily as a hot knife through butter. There was no spray of blood; instead, a brilliant, piercing light surged forth.
It swallowed Ethan whole, dragging his consciousness directly into the depths of Slughorn's mind.
[!!]
Helena's almond-shaped eyes widened in shock. She stared at Ethan's limp body on the floor for a long moment, her lips tightening as a complex array of emotions crossed her face.
[...Alas, you still don't realize just how terrifying this Diadem truly is.]
Helena sighed, reaching out to steady Ethan, but her translucent arm passed right through him. She paused, pulling her hand back and murmuring to herself.
[It will lure out the memories and emotions you most desperately want to avoid, trapping you within them forever. Perhaps the crown my mother created was never meant to exist... a 'cursed object' that should have been destroyed.]
[But this time, no matter the outcome, I will not run away again... I will sink with you, with Ravenclaw, and with this castle my mother helped build.]
Helena floated silently in the air, her shimmering eyes staring hollowly into the void, as if drowning in her own memories.
Inside the illusion of Ravenclaw's Diadem.
"—Hah!"
Professor Slughorn jerked awake. He looked around frantically, desperate for the same spark of wisdom he'd felt before.
"Quickly, quickly... I need to know the answer... Rosehips or Golden Chicken blood, which one is it?"
However, the moment the old professor realized where he was, the expression on his face froze. His eyes bulged, filled with a primal, bone-deep terror.
Ding—
A crisp, clear sound, like a tuning fork being struck, echoed through the dim room.
[A few nights ago, I was in the Restricted Section of the library... and I found a very rare bit of magic.]
[I believe it's called...]
[A "Horcrux."]
A tall, slender figure turned slowly away from a uniquely designed green snake hourglass. He faced Slughorn with the very face that had haunted the professor's nightmares for decades.
His lips parted, enunciating every syllable:
[Have you heard of the term, Professor Slughorn?]
"Hah... hah...!"
Slughorn gasped for air, his body feeling as though it were being constricted by an invisible viper, cold and rigid.
...How had he never noticed it before? The coldness and cruelty hidden in the eyes of his most brilliant student, and that thin, well-concealed streak of greed.
[...You take a part of your soul and put it into an object.]
Slughorn heard his own voice spilling out of his mouth, uncontrollable and traitorous.
Merlin, no—no!! Stop it! Don't say another word!!!
The old professor's inner self screamed in agony. He shook like a leaf, feeling as though his own bloody, festering wounds were being picked open with a knife for all to see.
He was being swallowed by guilt and terror. His mind was a chaotic mess, and his body refused to move. Even though this was an illusion within his own mind, everything had spiraled out of control.
Just then, Slughorn's darting eyes caught something, and he froze.
He saw a painting on the wall nearby—a piece of art that had never been there before.
It was a portrait of a man with a swirling, vortex-like face.
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