Chapter 336: Fifth Year Begins! The One Where Luna is the Most Devoted Daughter
After careful tanning and detailing, the face that lay quietly in Ethan's hands — once Voldemort's own skin — had shed every trace of its former blood-red rawness. It now gleamed with the smooth, supple lustre of real human skin, every curve and contour perfectly formed.
Made from cursed materials purchased at Borgin and Burkes, it had become a mask capable of deceiving anyone.
"Though I don't suppose any student would be bold enough to try peeling off a professor's face," Ethan mused, laughing softly to himself. He sighed with what sounded almost like genuine regret. "Why couldn't I have had a professor this interesting when I was at school?"
No matter. As they say, only those who've been caught in the rain truly want to hold an umbrella for others. Ethan made a silent promise: he would give these poor students the most memorable Defence Against the Dark Arts experience of their lives.
He pressed the mask to his face. It slid on like silk, weightless — vision unobstructed, speech unimpeded. The only issue was how completely it adhered, melding to his skin as though it had always been there, with no obvious way to remove it.
"Cheeky little thing," Ethan said fondly, in the tone of someone scolding a mischievous child.
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
Mr Lovegood stepped in, carrying a tray of hot tea and homemade biscuits, his expression a mixture of pleasant warmth and mild awkwardness. "You've been up here a good while, Ethan. Come, take a break — have something to eat — hwaah?!"
The moment his gaze landed on the face slowly turning toward him from the centre of the room, Mr Lovegood made a strangled sound, as though something had seized his throat. The tray flew upward from his hands, biscuits and hot tea scattering through the air like confetti. There was a loud bang, and the poor man toppled backwards onto the floor, eyes rolling back, as he fell into a sleep as deep and peaceful as an infant's.
"My, my. Mr Lovegood does love his naps," Ethan remarked, shaking his head. He scratched absently at the mask on his face, then waved a hand—and, after a moment's thought, placed two round biscuits neatly over Mr Lovegood's eyes.
Luna heard the commotion and came upstairs.
"Luna..." Mr Lovegood murmured unconsciously, writhing in distress. "...run..."
"Mm."
Luna tilted her head, considered this for a moment, then crouched down cheerfully. She conjured a white crayon with her wand and, with great care and focus, drew a neat outline around her father's body.
Then she sat back and smiled with quiet satisfaction. "Hehe."
She looked up — and upon seeing her companion's current appearance, paused for a brief moment.
Then nodded thoughtfully. "Very extraterrestrial."
Their eyes met, and they shared a smile. The last of the evening light fell across them both, drifting like slow golden dust.
A perfectly pleasant atmosphere.
Aside from Mr Lovegood, groaning softly on the floor.
"No... Luna..."
As though sensing something, a single tear slid out from beneath one of the biscuits on his eyes.
And so, in this little round house — chess piece-shaped and quietly absurd — another warm and peaceful ordinary day came to a close.
1st September. The first day of term at Hogwarts.
The deep crimson train let out a long whistle and pulled away from the crowded platform like some great iron dragon, carrying with it new hopes and new beginnings, bound for a place of sunlight and promise.
"I heard that Bagman — the Head of Magical Games and Sports who ran the Triwizard Tournament last term — was caught up in some dodgy dealings and a mountain of debt. The Aurors took him in for questioning."
"It was a recently appointed Auror, apparently. From some family over in France, I think."
"Tch. The Ministry's rotten through and through. It would take a complete overhaul to fix it."
"Speaking of which, does anyone know who our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is this year? 'An Norn'? Nobody in my family's ever heard that name."
"You don't think they're actually going to teach us wandless magic, do you? That's a laugh — as if anyone could ever learn that."
The conversation drifted from excited to drowsy as the light outside the windows faded. Then, rising from the darkness, Hogwarts Castle appeared on its cliff — and the students fell into an awed, familiar silence.
In the Great Hall, lit by a thousand floating candles, the Sorting Hat's song this year was unlike any it had sung before.
Not that this was unusual, strictly speaking. The battered old hat composed a new song each year — according to the students, it agonised over its terrible lyrics for the entire twelve months. But this time, the words carried a weight that had never been there before.
The Dark Lord rises. Shadows gather close.
"Sounds rather as though He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is right here among us," Nearly Headless Nick remarked with a puzzled chuckle, his head wobbling at the angle it always did.
A ripple of unease moved through the students. Combined with the newspaper reports about Voldemort's return, more than a few faces had gone pale with worry.
But then they remembered — Ethan Vincent was still here, still among them.
And somehow, that thought alone was enough. The anxiety eased, and the Great Hall felt a little warmer.
After the Sorting, it was time for Dumbledore's opening address. The white-haired headmaster stepped forward into the amber candlelight, which caught every line on his weathered face. His silver hair fell like snow, and his bright blue robes — star-scattered, youthful in a way that had nothing to do with age — shifted and gleamed as he moved. His eyes were as sharp and warm as ever.
Only the most attentive observer might have noticed something else beneath it: a faint, bone-deep exhaustion. As though something had quietly worn him down over the summer.
"First," Dumbledore said, "a warm welcome to our new students. For the next seven years, Hogwarts will be your home — a place where you will grow from empty vessels into ones filled with knowledge. Though I will say, one or two of you may prove to be... leaky buckets."
A ripple of laughter moved through the hall. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
In the Hufflepuff section, a new student from a Muggle family pressed their hands over their mouth, eyes bright with tears. "I can't believe magic is real… I can't believe I'm actually here," they whispered, barely able to speak. "I can't believe I'm actually here to learn it. Am I dreaming?"
"This is about as real as it gets," said a friendly voice nearby.
The new student wiped their eyes and smiled. "Ha — thank you. That's really reassuring."
"Don't mention it. Happy to help."
Everyone here is so kind, the student thought. I'm going to have the most wonderful seven years.
On the staff table, Dumbledore continued. "This year brings two notable changes.
"The first: at the strong request of the Ministry of Magic, and in the interest of student safety, two Aurors have been assigned to remain on school grounds. Please welcome Miss Connie Rosier and Mr Corban Yaxley."
Scattered, uncertain applause. The students eyed the woman standing at the side of the Great Hall with undisguised suspicion.
Connie felt her cheeks burn.
Protection. The word sat in her chest like a stone. They weren't here to protect anyone. They were here to investigate Dumbledore — and Ethan.
Listening to the headmaster's warm, earnest words, Connie, who had always prided herself on her sense of justice, felt thoroughly ashamed. She even had the unsettling feeling Dumbledore had said it on purpose.
That can't be right. He's far too kind. I'm just projecting my own guilt.
She bit her lower lip and, despite herself, glanced toward the Ravenclaw table. Her gaze lingered on the dark-haired figure seated there.
My hero. The wizarding world's saviour. Ethan Vincent.
Her face went pink. Her lips parted slightly. She let out a slow breath.
Shame the angle was wrong. All she could see was the back of a very handsome head.
It was, honestly, distressing.
...Come to think of it, where has my colleague Yaxley got to?
Connie frowned, glancing around.
She couldn't quite explain it, but an uneasy feeling had been creeping up on her since they arrived — a low, instinctive reluctance to find herself alone with the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. The one Minister Scrimgeour had mentioned: no background, no records, no known origin. A mystery wrapped in a teaching post.