The orange glow of a Scottish sunset filtered through the high windows of the empty classroom, casting long, dramatic shadows over the silken mattress Ethan had manifested. He sat up, stretching his limbs. The previous night's "activities" had been a marathon, and even with his enhanced vitality, he'd needed every minute of that twelve-hour crash.
He kicked off the silk sheets and stood up, feeling a strange resonance with the castle's ancient stones. He was lighter, sharper, andâmore importantlyâstarving.
****
The castle was a hive of frantic, nervous energy. The news that Dumbledore hadn't just survived, but was looking healthier than he had in decades, had turned the student body into a rumor mill.
As Ethan walked toward the grand staircase, he found his path blocked by a wall of red hair. Fred and George Weasley were leaning against a stone gargoyle, flanked by Ginny and a very bruised-looking Neville Longbottom.
"There he is!" Fred announced, pointing a finger at Ethan. "The mystery man of the hour."
"The Man Who Saved the Old Man," George added, grinning widely. "We were thinking of starting a line of 'Ethan-Inspired' shielding hats. Any interest in a licensing deal? We're thinking gold Mandalas on the brim."
"I'm more of a silent partner," Ethan chuckled, sidestepping them.
"Is it true?" Ginny asked, her eyes sharp and curious, devoid of the shyness she used to have around Harry. "You handled Greyback without a wand? Just... threw him off the roof like a sack of potatoes?"
"He was cluttering up the view," Ethan replied.
"Wicked," Neville muttered, looking at Ethan with genuine respect. Neville had spent the night fighting in the corridors, and seeing a man who could dismantle the Dark Lord's elite so casually was clearly a new benchmark for him.
Ethan gave them a nod and kept moving. He could feel the weight of a hundred stares from the paintings and the students alike as he climbed toward the seventh floor. He wasn't just a visitor anymore; he was a variable that had just broken the board.
******
Ethan reached the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. It stepped aside without a word or a passwordâthe castle's magic seemed to recognize him as an authorized, if somewhat chaotic, presence.
Inside, the atmosphere was... heavy.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking remarkably vibrant. Minerva McGonagall stood by the window, her lips pressed into a line so thin it was practically invisible. The awkwardness in the room was dense enough to trigger a Shield Charm.
"Ahem," Ethan cleared his throat. "Good evening. Everyone have a nice, quiet day?"
"I have been quite rested, Mr. Williams," Dumbledore said, his voice steady but his eyes flickering for a fraction of a second to a very specific, now-spotless patch of the mahogany desk. "And you? I trust the... classroom accommodations were sufficient for your needs?"
"A bit dusty, but I managed," Ethan said.
"I'm sure you did," McGonagall snapped, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. She wouldn't even look at him, instead choosing to glare intensely at the Forbidden Forest.
From the wall, Phineas Nigellus Black let out a loud, theatrical sigh. "Oh, don't mind them, boy! They've been sitting here in a state of moral shock for hours. I tried to tell them that youth is a fleeting thing, but apparently, 'decorum' is still a requirement for the living. The things I saw from this frameâ"
"SILENCE, PHINEAS!" Dumbledore and McGonagall barked in perfect, terrifying unison.
Ethan winced. Yeah, the portraits definitely ratted us out.
"Right. Well. Moving on," Ethan said, deciding that the "ignorance is bliss" strategy was the only way to survive this conversation. "I'm starving. Is there any food left in this castle?"
Dumbledore flicked his fingers. With a soft pop, a silver tray laden with thick-cut ham, roast potatoes, and a flagon of pumpkin juice appeared on the side table. Ethan didn't wait for an invitation; he sat down and started eating with a ferocity that made McGonagall blink.
*****
As Ethan finished his meal, he looked at the desk. There they were: The Locket of Slytherin, The Cup of Hufflepuff, and The Diadem of Ravenclaw. Three pieces of Voldemort's soul, sitting there like expensive, cursed paperweights.
"So," Dumbledore began, his hands folded. "Now that the... biological requirements are met, we must discuss the endgame. Voldemort will realize by now that his attempt on my life failed. He will be regrouping. He will be terrified of your presence here."
"Good," Ethan said, wiping his mouth. "Fear makes people sloppy."
"So what's the next plan?" McGonagall asked, finally stepping away from the window. "We have the Locket, the Cup, and the Diadem. We know where the snake is. Do we destroy these now?"
"Won't he be alerted?" Dumbledore asked softly, his gaze lingering on the Locket. "He will feel the void as they shatter. He may take rash, violent actions. He may descend upon this school with everything he has the moment he realizes his anchors are being cut."
"So what?" Ethan shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "We have to destroy them either way. And sooner or later, we're going to have to fight him. What are you waiting for, Albus? You still sticking to that prophecy? The 'either must die at the hand of the other' bit?"
Dumbledore sighed, a long, weary sound that echoed through the circular room. "It has been the foundation of my strategy for years, Ethan. Harry's role in the final confrontation was meant to be the deciding factorâ"
"Forget the role," Ethan interrupted. "The moment I stepped onto that tower and stopped Snape from killing you, the prophecy became nothing more than a bad script. I'm a variable the 'Great Beyond' didn't account for. The path is rewritten."
He pointed to the Horcruxes.
"We don't wait for Harry to grow up or for Voldemort to make a mistake. We hit him where it hurts, and we do it now. We show him that his immortality isn't a shieldâit's a countdown."
Dumbledore looked at the three Horcruxes, his blue eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. For a moment, the weight of a century seemed to settle on him, before the new vitality Ethan had given him surged back.
"Indeed," Dumbledore whispered. "Prophecy is a cage I have lived in for a very long time. It is... refreshing to see the bars broken."
"Good," Ethan stood up, his hands crackling with the first faint sparks of Eldritch magic. "Then let's stop talking and start breaking things."
Author's Note:
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