Thud!
A sickening whirl of motion.
Harry and Cedric Diggory hit the ground hard.
The Triwizard Cup flew from their grasp and rolled across the damp grass.
"Where… are we?"
Harry fumbled for his glasses, shoving them onto his face as he stared around in shock. "The Cup was a Portkey? This is Ethan's 'surprise'?"
Though "terrifying prank" would have been closer to the truth.
A cold wind swept past, carrying the smell of earth and decay.
Gravestones rose in crooked rows all around them.
Crows croaked from bare branches—"caw, caw"—before launching into the murky sky.
The clouds hung low and heavy, swallowing what little light remained.
It was a place of utter desolation, the kind of scene painted by someone who had already given up on the world.
"So bleak…" Harry muttered, swallowing hard. "Classic Ethan Vincent aesthetic."
He tightened his grip on his wand and whispered, "Lumos."
Soft white light bloomed from the tip, pushing back the fog and gloom.
And then Harry froze.
Tom Riddle.
Cedric, leaning against the tombstone they'd crashed into, read the inscription aloud with curious interest. "Died 1943… a soul murdered, the body torn…?"
"Cedric—"
"Hey, Harry! This guy was murdered!"
Cedric spun around, eyes bright with excitement. "There's even a Grim Reaper carved here! Are we about to get a murder-mystery side quest?"
"Move—Cedric, GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
A desperate shout tore from Harry's throat.
The last thing Cedric saw was a blinding flash of green.
And Harry's hand, reaching desperately to shove him aside.
It wasn't enough.
Bang!
The curse grazed Harry's fingertips and slammed into Cedric's chest.
The sturdy Hufflepuff was flung backward like a rag doll, crashing to the ground in a limp heap.
His eyes—wide, empty, frozen in shock and horror—stared up at nothing.
"No… no, Cedric… no!"
Harry's mind went white.
He scrambled forward on hands and knees, grabbing Cedric's shoulders and shaking him. "Cedric! Cedric, wake up!"
The body beneath his palms was already cooling.
No heartbeat. No breath.
Just the terrible silence of death.
Avada Kedavra.
The words flashed through Harry's mind from Moody's lessons—one of the three Unforgivable Curses.
He hadn't heard the incantation, but he knew the green light. He knew what it meant.
A curse that killed instantly, acting directly on the soul.
Only the darkest intent could fuel it.
In class they'd all tried it on Professor Moody under controlled conditions. The worst it had done was give the old Auror a nosebleed.
But right now, Harry knew—without a shred of doubt—that he could cast it perfectly.
Rustle. Rustle.
Slow footsteps on wet grass.
In the dead silence of the graveyard, each sound felt like a hammer blow.
Whoever it was, they weren't hurrying. They were enjoying the moment.
Rustle.
A pure white mask emerged from the darkness, exactly the glimpse Harry had caught earlier in the wand-light.
Moonlight spilled through a gap in the clouds, painting the newcomer in silver.
Tall. Impossibly sleek. Dressed nothing like any wizard Harry had ever seen—not even Lockhart in his peacock robes.
A tailored black suit, trousers knife-creased, a gold watch chain glinting from pocket to button. Dark blue tie knotted with perfect precision. A monk-like cloak over his shoulders, top hat held politely in one gloved hand. The other hand rested lightly on a gold-tipped cane that tapped the ground like a metronome.
Without the blank porcelain mask, he could have passed for a Muggle priest on his way to midnight mass.
Harry knew better.
He was shaking with rage and grief. "You… you killed Cedric!"
"Long time no see, Mr. Potter."
The masked man ignored the accusation entirely, bowing with theatrical grace. "Perhaps you still remember me. Mr. Lamp—the one who will usher wizardkind into its glorious new era."
"I've been waiting for you."
"YOU KILLED CEDRIC!"
Harry roared, raising his wand. "Confringo!"
A jet of furious red light shot toward the masked figure.
It clipped a tombstone on the way—solid granite exploded into powder.
Clang.
The spell ricocheted off thin air as though it had struck steel, blasting a crater into the earth beside them.
Hiss…
Something nightmarish uncoiled from behind Mr. Lamp.
A writhing mass of black hair floating as though underwater. Countless thin, jointed arms—each tipped with blade-like nails—wrapped protectively around the masked man's torso. A single blood-red eye gleamed from within the tangled strands, fixed on Harry with predatory hunger.
Harry didn't even flinch.
Breathing like a wounded animal, he hurled spell after spell—Stupefy, Reducto, anything that came to mind—bright explosions of light tearing through the graveyard.
Mr. Lamp never lifted his wand.
He simply watched the frantic boy the way one might watch an entertaining tantrum.
"Is this the best your teachers have managed?" he asked, almost gently. "How disappointing."
Tch.
Ethan clicked his tongue beneath the mask.
Look at him go—absolutely losing it the moment someone pokes the scar.
He hadn't even noticed Cedric was still breathing (shallowly, yes, but breathing). A solid smack or two would snap the lad right out of the Confundus Charm. He'd probably yelp.
And this wasn't the Little Hangleton graveyard, miles from Hogwarts.
They had never left the maze.
The Triwizard Cup had been charmed with the Mirror of Erised. Touch it together, and you stepped straight into the world inside the glass.
[Mirror of Erised: Within its realm, the one who understands desire holds absolute dominion.]
Ethan's lips curled into a wicked grin beneath the mask.
As if he'd ever play by Voldemort's rules and fight on the Dark Lord's chosen ground.
He couldn't wait to see the look on that noseless face when the snake realized he'd been played—probably sit bolt upright in his cauldron like a corpse doing crunches.
But first, the Savior needed one more lesson in humility.
Whoosh.
Ethan flicked a finger.
Harry was yanked off his feet and flung backward, spine slamming into the statue atop Tom Riddle's grave.
Another lazy gesture, and the stone Grim Reaper shifted, its scythe locking around Harry's throat like a cold metal collar.
Harry's wand spun from his fingers and clattered away.
"Let—me—go!"
Harry thrashed, legs kicking uselessly.
Ethan strolled closer, voice light. "Lose your wand and suddenly you're helpless? Wizards are such fragile creatures."
If I ever teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, day one is wandless casting. Tradition be damned.
Harry looked ready to spit blood. One sentence, and the guy had casually insulted centuries of Ollivander's craftsmanship.
That particularism—that effortless talent for enraging people—was so unmistakably…
Harry bared his teeth. "Just wait. Ethan will notice something's wrong any second now. He's the strongest wizard we have. When he gets here, you're finished!"
Mr. Lamp—Ethan—tilted his head, clearly delighted. "Oh? Do go on."
Harry's eye twitched. "I—argh—I'm going to explode!"
He felt like he was arguing with one of the eldritch horrors Ethan sometimes summoned for fun.
Definitely not human.
Then—new footsteps.
Rustle, rustle, rustle.
Heavier. Uneven. Dragging.
Moonlight revealed the newcomer, and Harry's breath caught.
A walking corpse.
Skin the color of old parchment, staggering steps, cradling something bundled in rags. Thick purple veins—like roots—bulged beneath the skin. At the throat, clusters of brown mushrooms sprouted, their caps mottled with darker spots that almost looked like screaming faces.
Harry's stomach lurched.
The vacant, lopsided face clicked into memory.
"You're—Barty Crouch Junior?!"
He'd seen that face in Dumbledore's Pensieve—the mad Death Eater sentenced to Azkaban all those years ago.
But Crouch Junior was supposed to be dead.
The man shuffled to a halt beside Mr. Lamp and rasped, "Master…"
His voice sounded like gravel poured down a well.
Harry stared, horrified.
Then the masked man spoke again, tone dripping with amusement.
"Harry, manners."
"Aren't you going to greet your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"
Harry whipped his head around.
Even through the smooth white porcelain, he could feel the grin.
And suddenly, everything made a dreadful kind of sense.