By late Monday evening candlelight had settled over Ethan's office, stretching soft golden stripes along the stone floor. Quiet wrapped the room like a familiar cloak, disturbed only by the gentle rustle of newsprint as he turned a page of the Daily Prophet. The small fire in the hearth had burned down to a sleepy glow, its modest warmth a quiet comfort against the swift-changing weather of the Scottish Highlands.
His eyes moved slowly over the bold headline printed in thick black ink.
{Five Dead in Knockturn Alley Inferno. Cause Unknown. Aurors Investigating.}
He spoke the last lines under his breath, the words edged with raw disgust.
"And unfortunately five wizards were killed in this horrific fire and the cause of the fire has not been determined but the Aurors are investigating it."
The words lingered in the air.
Ethan clicked his tongue in quiet disgust, folding the newspaper with deliberate folds before placing it on the desk.
"As if the lives of a bunch of kidnappers are important enough to fill half a page," he muttered.
His jaw clenched for a brief instant. Flashes came without warning: the grotesque ruins of innocence he'd seen in those wizards' minds—the children crumpled and still, the women shattered beyond recognition. Far worse had crossed his path since the day Olivia pulled him into the shadows of the organization, but yesterday's discoveries clung stubbornly. A bitter taste coated his mouth as the memories circled again and again, refusing to let go.
He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled deeply.
A bell rang through the corridors outside, clear and resonant, cutting through his thoughts.
Which indicated the time for his class.
Ethan stood slowly, tugging his dark robe sleeves straight. The mask he reserved for the classroom slid over him like second skin: calm, kind, carefully measured. Beneath it, the bitterness and ache from yesterday still twisted, but he locked them away. His students would see only strength—never the man who felt fragile enough to shatter.
"Well," he murmured to himself as he moved toward the door, "duty calls."
He opened the connecting door from his office and entered the classroom, clearing his throat to signal his arrival. The students filled the tiered benches surrounding the dueling platform, their attention snapping to him immediately. Some faces lit with anticipation, others flickered with nerves. The low buzz of conversation ceased the moment his eyes swept the room.
Their eagerness struck him unexpectedly.
For a brief second, the weight from earlier eased a little.
He walked to the center of the arena and turned slowly, surveying them all. First years with wide eyes still adjusting to this new unfamiliar world. Second years sitting straighter now that they understood expectations. A few older students watching with knowing and experienced expressions.
He forced a small smile at his students.
"Well," he began, letting his voice carry through the chamber with easy warmth, "welcome back, all of you. Sounds like you've had a properly busy week—unlike me, who spent most of mine hiding out in the library with nothing but books for company."
A few students nodded. Others grinned openly.
"I hope you have all had a brilliant week. A week full of mysteries and new discoveries. Especially for our first years who experienced magic in a structured setting for the first time in their lives. I trust it has been… enlightening."
A ripple of quiet laughter spread.
"And I also hope," he continued, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled across the platform, "you've all been practicing the disarming charm—especially our younger contingent. In this room, practice is not optional; it is required.
I did promise no tedious academic spells and no dueling spectacles for the younger years, but exceptions must be made. Certain charms are non-negotiable from day one. Learn them well now, and by the time you graduate, most of the wizarding world's nastier surprises will find you rather harder to catch off guard."
That word received eager attention from some younger students.
"So," he remarked, stopping at the center with a faint nod, "let us proceed and discover just how intimately you've acquainted yourselves with the spell in the last week."
A hand shot up from the middle row before he could continue.
Ethan raised a brow.
"Yes. Mr. Weasley."
The red haired boy stood, a grin already tugging at his mouth. Ethan regarded him carefully. Identical twin, if memory served. Which one though. Fred or George.
"Professor," the boy began with barely contained excitement, "we heard from the older students that you have these alchemical training dummies that fight back. Proper dueling ones. And that they are brilliant."
A few students murmured in agreement.
"So why don't we actually try them out?" the Weasley went on eagerly. "Come on, it's got to be loads better than blasting the students or walls all day."
A few chuckles followed.
Ethan studied the class for a moment before responding.
"It seems," he said, his tone calm and unruffled, "your older classmates have already told you about their evening here last Friday."
The Weasley grinned wider.
"Yes," Ethan said evenly, a faint trace of pride in his measured voice. "These are no ordinary targets. They're enchanted Auror-grade constructs designed to mimic true dueling. They respond to any wizard who confronts them, adapt to your abilities, and never pull their punches."
Several students leaned forward.
"However," he said, voice sharpening slightly, "you are not yet at the level required to face them."
A collective disappointed groan rippled through the room.
"I am quite certain," Ethan went on, "that your seniors also informed you that every single one of them lost to the easiest level."
A few students nodded.
"They fought well," Ethan added evenly, "but they could not leave so much as a scratch on the dummies."
Silence fell.
"So," he said, meeting the Weasley boy's eyes calmly, "hold back from challenges you are not ready to survive. Those dummies fight like true opponents and demand a solid arsenal of offensive and defensive spells. Most of you do not possess that depth of skill at present, but you will build it."
The boy sat down slowly, though the excitement in his eyes had not faded.
Ethan clasped his hands behind his back once more.
"If you are so eager to face the dummies," he said, a quiet note of challenge in his otherwise calm tone, "then by all means. You will have your chance by the end of the year. It will show you what is coming. That may inspire you to buckle down, to learn your spells properly in Defense Against The Dark Arts and Charms, and to work twice as hard. Succeed at that, and who knows—you might even outshine your seniors."
A ripple of renewed determination coursed through the tiered benches.
One student leapt up with a shout: "Is that a promise, Professor?"
Ethan regarded the room for a beat, then answered with quiet finality. "Very well. I will make you a promise."
Heads lifted instantly.
"At the end of the year," he said clearly, "each of you will be allowed one attempt against the lowest level construct. Just so you may understand what true dueling pressure feels like."
The arena erupted.
Cheers. Applause. Excited whispers.
Ethan could not stop the genuine smile that broke through this time.
Their joy was uncomplicated. Pure. It stood in such stark contrast to the ugliness he had witnessed only a day before that it almost hurt.
Almost.
For a fleeting second, the darkness in his mind receded.
'Children.'
They were just children.
"Enough," he said, raising a hand though his tone held warmth now. "Calm yourselves."
Gradually the noise settled.
"Today," he continued, "we will begin by evaluating your progress on the disarming charm.
He gestured toward the front of the platform.
"One by one, you will come down and attempt the spell against me. I will correct your stance, your pronunciation, your intent. The rest of you will observe and learn. Quietly."
He scanned the first row.
"From the first row. Begin."
A Slytherin student rose first.
A slim brown haired girl with careful movements and an expression that hovered somewhere between determination and anxiety. She descended the steps and stepped onto the platform.
Ethan recognized her.
"Miss. Davis," he said gently.
Tracey Davis offered a small, nervous smile. A faint blush colored her cheeks.
"Even though you are a first year," Ethan continued, "let us see what you have learned. If you succeed, excellent. If not, that is what I am here for."
She nodded quickly.
"Have you practiced?" he asked.
"Yes, Professor," she replied softly. "I asked some seniors to help me."
A few students in the stands glanced at one another.
Ethan inclined his head.
"That was intelligent. Initiative is valuable."
Her blush deepened slightly.
He stepped back a few paces, drawing his wand and holding it loosely at his side.
"Very well. Disarm me."
Tracey swallowed. She adjusted her grip, squared her shoulders, and raised her wand.
Ethan observed carefully.
"Good," he said quietly. "Your posture is stable. Your stance is balanced. Keep your wrist firm."
She inhaled and then, with as much confidence as she could summon, called out, "Expelliarmus."
A faint red spark flickered at the tip of her wand.
It sputtered weakly, no more than a brief glimmer of light before vanishing into the air between them.
Nothing else happened.
For a heartbeat there was silence.
Then laughter erupted from the benches.
Not cruel at first. Just surprised. But it grew quickly.
Tracey froze.
Her wand hand trembled slightly. Color flooded her face as she lowered her gaze to the floor, shoulders shrinking inward.
Ethan's expression hardened instantly.
"Enough."
His voice cut through the laughter like a blade through silk.
The sound in the arena died instantly.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. There was something in his tone that had shifted, something colder, firmer. It was the first time many of them had heard it.
He looked slowly from one row to another.
"All of you," he said, eyes narrowing slightly, "stop."
The last few snickers faded into uneasy silence.
The students straightened in their seats. A few exchanged uncertain glances. It was the first time they had seen him truly serious.
Ethan clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward, his gaze steady and seemingly cold.
"Why," he asked evenly, "are we laughing?"
No one answered at first.
He waited.
"Was it funny?"
The question lingered.
From the middle row, one of the Weasley twins raised his hand halfway, unable to suppress himself.
"Yes, Professor," he said with a crooked grin. "It was a bit funny."
A few students shifted, expecting amusement.
They did not receive it.
Ethan's eyes settled on the boy.
"That," he said calmly, "is a very foolish answer."
The grin faltered.
"You are laughing at a student who has been in this school for barely a week," Ethan continued. "A week. Some of you have had years of magical exposure at home. Some of you grew up around wands and spellbooks. And you mock someone who is still finding her footing."
He gestured lightly toward Tracey, who still stood near him, shoulders tense.
"I expected her to struggle," he went on. "I expected mispronunciation. I expected poor stance. I expected hesitation."
He looked directly at the Weasley twin.
"She pronounced the incantation correctly. Her posture was stable. Her wand grip was proper. Her focus was present."
He let that sink in.
"The disarming charm is not a beginner's flick and shout spell. It requires controlled projection. It requires intent. It requires confidence."
His gaze swept across the arena.
"And you laugh because she attempted it and did not succeed on the first try in front of you."
The silence deepened.
"That," he said quietly, "is not impressive. It is disappointing."
No one dared to smile now.
He turned back to Tracey, and his expression softened visibly.
"Miss. Davis," he said, voice warm once more, "that was brave."
She blinked in surprise.
"You stepped forward first. You attempted a spell beyond your expected level. You conjured it to nearly ninety percent completion on your third attempt."
A murmur of surprise ran through the class.
"Ninety percent," he repeated calmly. "For a first year. After one week."
Tracey's eyes widened slightly.
"For your courage," he continued, raising his voice just enough to carry, "and for the quality of your attempt, I award ten points to Slytherin."
The Slytherin section erupted into applause.
Several students who had laughed earlier now clapped just as loudly.
Tracey's embarrassment melted into stunned happiness. A bright smile replaced the earlier flush of shame.
Ethan inclined his head toward her.
"You are on the right track. With practice, you will cast it cleanly before the year ends. I have no doubt."
Her shoulders straightened.
"Now," he added gently, "a small correction. Your wand movement lacked speed at the final flick. The disarming charm requires a sharper release at the end of the motion. Your arc was correct. Your tempo was not. Increase the speed slightly and keep your wrist firm."
She nodded earnestly.
"You did well. You may sit."
Tracey returned to her seat, Slytherin students patting her on the shoulder as she passed.
Ethan turned back to the class.
"Next."
Another Slytherin student rose with measured grace.
Daphne Greengrass.
She descended the steps with quiet composure, face smooth and unreadable.
"Miss. Greengrass," Ethan said, studying her posture. "Whenever you are ready."
She gave a slight nod.
Without hesitation she raised her wand.
"Expelliarmus."
The spell shot forward in a clean red streak, far more stable than Tracey's initial attempt. It struck Ethan's wand arm squarely. His sleeve rippled from the impact.
But his wand remained firmly in his grasp.
The red light dissipated.
Daphne lowered her wand calmly, as if she had expected nothing less.
Ethan nodded once.
"Very good."
A few eyebrows lifted in the audience.
"You executed the incantation properly. Your stance was balanced. Your projection was stable. Your weakness lies only in force."
He stepped closer, gesturing lightly to her wrist.
"Your motion is slightly rigid. Smooth it. Magic responds to fluidity as much as precision."
She listened without expression, though her eyes sharpened slightly.
"Continue practicing. You are very close. Within a few sessions, you will disarm your partner without difficulty."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched her lips.
"Five points to Slytherin for technical precision."
A ripple of approval passed through her house section.
"You may sit."
She returned to her place without fanfare.