Chapter 330: A Lone Follower of the Lamp… Let's Get Him and—Wait, That's Ethan?!
Storm rain, giants, and a creepy cult that never got invited.
Ethan might show up like a normal person.
But getting Ethan to show up normally?
Not very likely.
In the silent dining room, the only sound was cutlery tapping against plates.
Warm, amber candlelight threw everyone's shadows across the peeling walls, and the edges of those shadows twisted now and then in a way that made Harry's skin crawl.
Scrape. Scrape.
Harry sat rigid, watching Ethan cut into the lamb chop beneath his knife with maddening elegance.
The meat was fully cooked, but under that sharp blade it looked, for one sick second, as if it were oozing fresh blood.
Harry realised, perhaps for the first time, just how ancient and sinister this house really was.
Every patch of torn wallpaper felt like it might hide an eye, ready to blink open and watch.
"Mmm. That's brilliant," Ethan said, entirely sincere.
He smiled at Mrs Weasley, whose face was still drawn tight with stress.
Then he kept that same smile in place.
On his pale, delicate face, it looked oddly fixed, like a shop-window doll.
He tilted his head and asked gently, "Why aren't you all eating?"
"Nice," Ron muttered, barely moving his lips.
The table fell into a deathly hush.
It did not feel like Harry's birthday dinner.
It felt like they had come to pay respects at Harry's grave.
And Ethan, this underworld thing that had crawled up from beneath the floorboards, was calmly helping himself to the "offerings".
"Honestly, new era and all. Even demons get a seat at the table now…" Ron muttered under his breath.
He stared at a beautifully roasted chicken drumstick and, despite himself, swallowed hard.
Harry thought Ron was completely correct.
But Ron really needed to stop talking.
This was meant to be his birthday. Everyone had rushed here despite being busy, just to celebrate with him…
Even Ethan had appeared from who-knew-where and delivered him a present in the most horrifyingly unexpected way imaginable.
Those two things together should have meant more happiness, not less.
So why had it become this?
Harry clutched the gift box, which for some reason kept giving off a steady thumping from inside, and asked the universe a question from the depths of his soul.
Luckily.
After dinner, Ethan said he and Luna were going back.
He was not staying the night at the Black family's house like everyone else.
That single decision made some people delighted and others miserable.
Hermione bit her lip and tugged carefully at Ethan's sleeve, ignoring Harry and Ron practically shaking their heads off to warn her.
"Ethan… can't you stay? My room is quite big."
Ethan had only just opened his mouth to answer when Luna said brightly beside him, "No need. We've just made a coffin that fits two people, and tonight we're going to be buried and sleep in the earth."
Hermione's eyebrows shot up.
Luna narrowed her eyes, dreamy with delight. "Oh, just imagine it. The cold, the stillness. The sky turning overhead. In the moonlight, you can hear fairy wings, and the little rustle things make when they think you're asleep."
"I can only imagine mud and rot," Hermione said flatly.
She knitted her brows and gave Ethan a severe look that clearly asked, Are you actually doing this madness?
Ethan misunderstood completely.
He beamed and offered, "Do you want to come too, Hermione?"
"If we squeeze a bit, the three of us can lie down together."
"Consider it a rehearsal."
Ethan winked at her, playful as anything.
A rehearsal for what?
Sitting up like a corpse and traumatising the first passer-by?
Hermione struggled for several seconds, then deflated. "No, thank you, Ethan…"
"I'd rather stay in a warm, dry bed."
"What a pity." Ethan shrugged.
He produced his cane, spun it with a flamboyant flourish, plucked a bowler hat from the coat stand, and dipped into an elegant bow.
Then he looked up, smiling at the stiff, shaken room. "Well then. Until we meet again… everyone in the Order of the Phoenix."
Everyone: !!!
Eyes went wide all around the table.
They simply could not believe what they had just heard.
Knowing this house could, at a stretch, be explained away as "Sirius and Harry's home".
But the Order of the Phoenix, a secret organisation?
How did Ethan know?
If Dumbledore had told him, they should have heard about it ages ago.
And yet…
Mad-Eye Moody's voice went sharp. "Hold on. You are…"
"Snap."
Ethan clicked his fingers.
The next second, he and the Lovegoods dropped straight down and vanished.
All that remained was a pitch-black doorway opened in the floorboards, like Ethan had made a point of leaving it there just to be contrary.
The moment they most wanted answers, Ethan disappeared.
"Brilliant," Moody said flatly.
After several seconds of silence, Moody smacked his lips hard.
His magical eye whirred, rolling as he spoke in a low, grim rasp. "Right. Who leaked information?"
"Unless someone led that boy in by the hand, there is no way he could've found this place."
Sirius swallowed.
In his head, scenes flashed by like a moving photograph album.
James. Lily. I'm coming to join you…
Sirius drew a shaky breath. "Er… listen, I can explain…"
"Ah, and one more thing."
A clear voice suddenly rang out from the portal.
Everyone jumped like they had been hexed.
Ron launched himself straight up, nearly landing on Moody's head, and almost elbowed the magical eye right out of its socket.
On the floor, a pale hand reached out from the black portal.
It held three letters sealed with intricate wax.
Ethan's voice drifted up, perfectly matter-of-fact. "These are your Hogwarts letters. Nearly forgot to give them to you. Next term's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor needs some new supplies."
"So, tomorrow at one in the afternoon. Diagon Alley. Don't be late."
And then the portal snapped shut.
Leaving behind a severed hand, still resting on the floorboards.
Everyone: ???!
What in Merlin's name?
Under a chorus of horrified stares, the hand flipped over lightly.
Fingers splayed against the wood, letters pinched neatly between them, it scuttled towards them like a spider.
Tap-tap-tap-tap!
"AAAAAAH DO NOT COME ANY CLOSER!"
"Ron? Ron! Ron, don't die!"
"Ethan, you're a genius! Catch it, we can recreate…"
"GEORGE, FRED!"
Chaos exploded through the old house like a tornado.
Thank Merlin the house was soundproof, Harry thought bitterly.
Otherwise, the neighbours would lodge eight hundred complaints a day.
With a resigned grimace, Harry took the letters offered by the hand, which did a tiny little bow afterwards, bending its finger joints politely.
Very Ethan.
"I haven't had this much excitement since the day I was born in this old house," Sirius said too.
He pulled Harry into a side hug and smiled, eyes soft. "Anyway… happy birthday, Harry."
Harry was quiet for a moment.
Then, finally, he broke into a helpless, genuinely happy smile. "This is… the most unique birthday I've ever had. I'll never forget it. Not for the rest of my life."
Every year, a new horror. Every year, something different.
Thanks for thinking of me, Ethan.
But next time…
Maybe don't.
Harry looked down at the letters. "We're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for school supplies. I wonder who the Defence professor is next term…"
He paused as a separate sheet of paper slipped out of the envelope.
He picked it up.
Across the top, in bold print, were the words:
Personal Risk Acknowledgement Form
Signed:
Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Ann Noone (Unknown)
The next day.
The Leaky Cauldron.
12:50 p.m.
The small pub, crowded with unsettling portraits and odd little sculptures, had practically become a gathering place for zealots.
Today, as always, they wore mysterious black cloaks.
On their faces were gleaming brass masks shaped like eagle beaks, to distinguish themselves from Death Eaters and proclaim their status as "followers of the Lamp".
"Ah, great god of art and light! May your brush reach the whole universe!"
"Ethan is our new saviour! The guiding lamp that leads us into radiance!"
"Please grant me one hundred, no, twenty Galleons is fine!"
As usual, several followers knelt before a statue of an eight-armed octopus, shouting prayers and pouring out devotion and wishes.
They hoped their young leader, perpetually busy, mostly with school, might deign to cast a merciful glance their way.
At the same time, sensible sorts used the gathering to organise donations, handing out dry bread and other basics for free, trying to keep a positive cycle going in an increasingly tense time as prices rose.
Tom the barman had long since got used to it.
After everything he had seen, he was no longer the wide-eyed boy he used to be.
If it encouraged spending and the people were not hurting anyone, fine. Let them worship.
Of course.
Where there were fanatics, there were critics.
"Hmph. Bunch of lunatics!" an old drunk slurred, already tipsy in broad daylight.
He slammed his mug down and deliberately shouted at the gold-masked crowd.
The followers did not even glance at him. They stayed deep in prayer.
That only made the drunk's face flush redder with embarrassment and anger.
His cloudy eyes slid around the room, hunting for a soft target.
By sheer luck, he found one.
A young follower, sitting alone in the corner, quietly sipping a drink.
He looked "young" because he was tall and lean, lacking the thick build of a grown man. And the hand that extended from the cloak was smooth, pale, unlined, untouched by time.
Only his fingertips looked darker, as if they had been stained by something again and again.
And he was clearly a "follower" because he wore that glittering brass eagle-beak mask.
The lower half of his face was perfectly shaped, the hint of a handsome set of features.
Well-dressed young man. Follower. Alone.
All of it together stoked the drunk's alcohol-fuelled spite until it burned hot.
And he was alone.
What could go wrong? the old drunk thought. I can take one little youth.
At the same time, Ethan, waiting for Harry and the others, tilted his head slightly, as if he had sensed something.
A smear of iron-grey paint marked the hand holding his tin cup.
And if you looked closely, the cup itself had the texture of a painting.
Hmm.
Something interesting was coming.
Ethan's eyes flicked sideways towards the drunk, and the corner of his mouth curled with genuine amusement.