Oh—are you angels?!
Ethan stared at Harry and Ron in astonishment, his heart melting.
"Thank you, my good brothers! You've been a huge help!"
Ethan spread his arms and hugged the Two Little Ones tightly, thinking to himself:
Whenever I start becoming less human, someone comes along and proves I'm still in the Living World.
There are still more good people than bad in this world.
Ethan said sincerely, "If it weren't for you, I'd have attacked Mr. Filch and his cat."
Harry and Ron: "..."
The bashful, proud smiles on their faces froze. Their eyes widened in horror.
Ethan, please don't!
Although Filch wasn't a professor, he was still a member of staff!
Attacking a staff member was even more serious than fighting with a classmate!
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. They could both see what the other was thinking—
As expected of Ethan.
People in the Living World might do things from the Netherworld in their heads, but Ethan would actually put those thoughts into action.
After all, the middle of the night wasn't the best time for a chat.
Hearing footsteps in the distance, Harry and Ron hurriedly said goodbye to Ethan.
"If you're free tomorrow, we could visit Hagrid's Hut together and ask him about the Three-Headed Dog and that package!" Harry said.
"Sure," Ethan replied with a nod. He thought for a moment. "I don't have any classes in the afternoon, so how about then?"
"Sounds good!"
The Two Little Ones nodded vigorously at him, then tiptoed away.
Ethan waved with a smile, watching them disappear around the corner.
He turned and saw a beam of light shining toward him.
"Who's there?!"
Percy, the Gryffindor Prefect on patrol, held up a glass lantern and called out loudly.
It was no wonder Percy was a little nervous.
Anyone would've jumped at the sight of a pitch-black figure standing perfectly still beneath a window in the dead of night.
Ethan slowly turned around.
Under the moonlight and the magical lamp, his smile looked like a painted mask.
Handsome, elegant, and flawless.
And somehow, a little unreal.
"..."
Percy swallowed and instinctively grabbed his old wand.
But the next moment,
Ethan greeted him first. "Hi, Percy. Good evening."
It was hardly normal to greet someone at nearly one in the morning.
Still, Percy breathed a sigh of relief.
He straightened up, adopting the air of a Prefect. "Do you know what you're doing? Out of bed after curfew! And I caught you red-handed!"
Ethan blinked. "Sorry, but I was helping Mr. Filch with some work tonight. I was just about to head back to the dormitory."
"...Ah. Oh."
Percy froze. Thinking it over, he remembered that was true.
Whenever a young wizard was given detention, the Prefects on patrol were informed.
Ethan had startled him, and in his confusion he'd completely forgotten.
"Ahem."
Percy coughed twice, pretending to be casual and hoping the darkness would hide his flushed face. He asked suspiciously, "Were you alone? I thought I heard voices just now."
Ethan didn't bat an eye. "A ghost just passed by."
Before Percy could reply, Ethan yawned and rubbed his eyes, putting on a sleepy expression.
"If you don't need anything else, can I go back to the dormitory and get some sleep? I've been polishing trophies all night, and my arms are about to fall off."
Strictly speaking,
he'd only polished the glass case containing the Special Contribution Award.
He'd left everything else to the Scouring Charm.
For some reason, even though Ethan was a first-year, several years younger than him,
Percy had somehow let him take control of the conversation.
"Mm, ah, sure. Go get some sleep."
Percy nodded stiffly.
He watched Ethan politely say goodbye and stroll off at an unhurried pace.
He had no idea that just a minute earlier, his own younger brother had broken several school rules and slipped away right under his nose.
The next day.
That morning, Ethan, who usually made a point of going to bed early and getting up early, had dark circles under his eyes for once.
But the real disaster was his Defense Against the Dark Arts class that morning.
"This—this s-scarf was g-given to me by an African p-prince after I d-defeated a R-Reanimated Zombie!"
Professor Quirrell stood at the lectern, wearing a purple turban as large as a flying disc and stammering as he spoke.
At first, everyone had been looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts.
After all, it was the dangerous and mysterious subject of "Dark Magic"!
Granted, Hogwarts hadn't gone so far as to let students practice Dark Magic. They were only learning how to defend themselves against it.
But just reading the textbook, Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, was fascinating enough.
Boggarts that gave people a fright, vampires that came out at night, and mischievous Cornish Pixies.
The Disarming Charm, the Shield Charm, and all kinds of strange Counter-Jinxes!
For instance, if someone was hit by the Belly-Ripping Curse, how could they use magic to put their guts back in properly—
instead of seeking help from a Muggle doctor and awkwardly explaining how they'd gotten a prolapse, assuming they were still conscious.
Ethan's favorite case was about a Muggle child who'd been snatched by a monster into another dimension. (It was said that the elevator at the bottom of the Department of Mysteries connected to a dark, freezing otherworld.)
To communicate with her son in that otherworld, his Muggle mother hung little colored lights all over the house.
She figured out the lights' positions and letters from their flashes and used them to hold a conversation. It was very clever.
The method had even inspired the Ministry of Magic and become a model case.
Incidentally,
Michael thought the case was a little scary and said, "It'll give me nightmares."
His favorite was the many exploits of the hero Gilderoy Lockhart—especially the ones about rescuing damsels in distress.
Ethan couldn't bear to shatter his admiration.
After all, in a year's time, it would become obvious just how much the boastful Lockhart was really worth.
But back to the subject.
No matter how exciting the textbook made things sound,
it all went to waste in Professor Quirrell's class.
The whole classroom reeked of garlic, and Professor Quirrell's lecture was a stammering jumble that went nowhere.
Whenever a student asked how he'd defeated those monsters, he'd play the weather card.
Ethan kept his head down, his nose tormented by the smell of garlic and his ears battered by the pointless rambling.
His eyes were fixed on the textbook he'd already read to tatters, and a vein began to throb at his temple.
This was awful.
A complete waste of time. It was like paying money to suffer.
Damn it, he'd bought that textbook with his own hard-earned money. People shouldn't underestimate the cost of secondhand books.
Professor Binns's History of Magic lectures might sound like chanting scriptures, but at least he was actually teaching.
And Professor Quirrell?
He wasn't teaching a single thing.
Had the Dark Lord put a stop to all the knowledge?
Ethan couldn't take it anymore.
He'd stayed up late recording the Erised Spell the night before, and his whole head had been buzzing all morning.
A heavy gloom hung around him.
"Bang."
The scrape of a chair against the floor cut off Professor Quirrell's rambling.
Everyone turned to look at Ethan, who had suddenly stood up.
Professor Quirrell paused, then forced out a stiff smile of surprise and confusion. "M-Mr. Vincent? Is there s-something you'd like to ask?"
Ethan smiled and said politely,
"Professor Quirrell, I think you should pay me for attending this class."
Before you continue