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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 60: Quirrell’s Life in Ruins
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 00:53:26 +0000 UTCQuirrell stared at Ethan Vincent’s outstretched hand, his mind blank, unable to shake off the daze that gripped him.
He… agreed?
Just like that?
Why? In Ethan’s eyes, wasn’t he just a bumbling, useless professor?
Could it be—had Ethan uncovered his true identity?
In an instant, Quirrell’s heart lurched. A flicker of panic and malice flashed across his eyes, his hand instinctively tightening around his wand.
Then, a piercing gaze seemed to pin him from head to toe.
“……”
Quirrell’s body trembled faintly.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Dumbledore’s towering figure watching him from above.
Calm down. Calm down.
Don’t give yourself away.
Quirrell took a slow, deliberate breath, lifting his gaze to meet Ethan’s pure, disarming smile.
Ethan extended a small, pale hand, roughened by callouses from hard work.
Bathed in the warm glow of the Great Hall’s chandeliers, he looked almost saintly, like a savior radiating a holy aura, ready to guide a lost soul back to redemption.
…This kid doesn’t seem to be lying.
He definitely doesn’t know who I really am. He’s probably just curious, wanting to see what I can actually teach.
The panic in Quirrell’s chest began to ebb. He forced a “surprised” smile, grasping Ethan’s hand with a stammer. “Th-thank you so much! I-I’ll prove myself, I swear. Y-your choice won’t be a mistake, Mr. Vincent!”
Ethan’s smile was soft, almost sly. “You’re welcome, Professor Quirrell. As it happens, I’ve been doing some research on magical paintings and could use your expertise.”
Quirrell’s eyes lit up.
What a stroke of luck!
The Dark Lord had just tasked him with unraveling the secrets behind Ethan’s enchanted artworks.
“Y-you can count on me! I’ll d-do everything I can to assist you!”
Ethan’s grin widened.
I was hoping you’d say that.
“You can trust me, Professor Quirrell. I won’t hold back.”
Quirrell froze. “……”
Why did that sound so… ominous?
For reasons he couldn’t quite place, Ethan’s friendly smile sent a shiver racing down Quirrell’s spine. He let out a nervous chuckle, mumbling, “Of course, of course,” while trying to tug his hand free.
But then—
The five fingers gripping his hand tightened, locking him in place.
What?
Quirrell glanced up, confused, and met Ethan’s cobalt-blue eyes.
From a distance, those eyes were serene, like a still lake, reflecting their owner’s steady, unflappable demeanor.
But up close…
Quirrell glimpsed something else. Deep within those pupils, tiny flames flickered—small, yet brimming with ferocious vitality, as if a single spark could ignite them into a blazing inferno, consuming everything in its path.
“Professor Quirrell.”
Ethan’s clear voice snapped him back to reality.
Quirrell shuddered, the primal fear of facing a predator vanishing in an instant. He refocused on Ethan’s words.
“I’ve got broomstick rash on this hand, you know,” Ethan said, licking his lips.
His smile twisted into something almost perverse, wickedly playful.
Quirrell blinked. “Huh?”
Then, louder: “Huh?!”
Broomstick rash?!
Quirrell’s mind reeled, memories of that disastrous Halloween flooding back. He yanked his hand away, staring in horror at his palm.
It was pristine. Not a single red mark.
Ethan tilted his head, blinking innocently with those big, mischievous eyes. “Haha, just kidding, Professor Quirrell. You’re not mad, are you?”
Quirrell: “……”
His fists clenched so hard they trembled.
He was shaking—with rage.
Veins bulged at his temples, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth grinding so fiercely they might’ve cracked.
How dare this boy mock me?!
Me, the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant!
He wanted to scream, to tear Ethan apart. An Avada Kedavra was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed.
Then, he felt it again—Dumbledore’s gaze, heavy as a mountain.
“……Of course I’m not angry~,” Quirrell forced out, dropping his stammering facade. “You’re quite lively, Vincent. Heh heh heh.”
The word “lively” was spat through gritted teeth.
He had no choice but to swallow his pride… sniff.
The humiliation was unbearable.
Utterly unbearable.
But at least he’d fulfilled the Dark Lord’s command. He was now Ethan’s tutor, with a legitimate excuse to probe the secrets of those miraculous paintings.
As for helping Ethan with his research?
Pfft. How much could a student possibly demand?
Little did Quirrell know, he’d already taken his first step into a personal hell.
……
Quirrell’s private lessons were scheduled for every evening after dinner.
Only then did Ethan finally sit down to enjoy his long-overdue breakfast: a hearty bacon, cucumber, and fried egg sandwich, a crisp apple, and a tall glass of milk. A perfectly balanced meal.
Though young, Ethan was at an age of rapid growth, and the hardships he’d endured at Spinner’s End had left him with an insatiable appetite.
After stuffing a few extra cookies into his mouth to fill any gaps, Ethan let out a satisfied burp, his cheeks flushed from the feast.
He was a stark contrast to his roommates, Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein, who sat beside him, barely touching their food.
It wasn’t their fault—the stares directed at Ethan were simply too intense.
Michael and Anthony, caught in the crossfire, felt like they were sitting on a bed of nails. Every move they made seemed scrutinized.
They envied Ethan’s unshakable composure, no matter the situation.
They’d heard artists didn’t see people as individuals, but as collections of lines, muscles, and bones.
Was that how Ethan saw others?
Michael leaned in, curiosity getting the better of him, and whispered, “Ethan, how do you usually see me?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “A small horse pulling a big—”
“Whoa, stop, stop, stop!” Michael cut in, flustered. “I mean, like, on the surface. You know—”
Anthony adjusted his glasses and chimed in, “From a physical perspective.”
“Oh~” Ethan nodded, his gaze sweeping over Michael from head to toe.
Michael stiffened under the scrutiny, instinctively sitting up straighter.
After a moment, Ethan shook his head. “The taste is average.”
Michael blinked. “Huh?”
His expression shifted from confusion to dawning horror.
Ethan turned to Anthony, his gaze softening as he said, “You need to put on some weight. Not much to chew on.”
Anthony: “……Thanks.”
Enough already.
Michael’s face was a battlefield of emotions—wanting to speak, holding back, then wanting to speak again.
Anthony could tell his friend was too preoccupied with this existential crisis to care about the piercing stares anymore.
After breakfast, Ethan gathered his textbooks and strode out of the Great Hall, unfazed by the eyes tracking his every move, as if he were a king departing his court.
In his mind, he was already scheming—er, planning—how to make the most of Quirrell’s “kindness.”
First, he’d have Quirrell collect as much unicorn hair as possible.
A single strand was worth ten Galleons on the market.
A canvas woven from dozens of them? His modest savings would be gone in minutes.
Tch. Art is so expensive.
As for why Ethan ignored the stares?
Simple. He enjoyed them.
They were like soaking in a hot spring—whether the gazes were filled with admiration or disgust, he welcomed them all.
Admiration meant his ideas were spreading.
Hatred meant they were spreading more.
If people despised him, it only proved his actions had struck a nerve, touching their deepest interests and pain points.
Double the joy.
Besides, Ethan’s mind was always racing—thinking about the future, about knowledge, about his paintings.
He had no time to waste on petty stares.
Just as he headed toward class, a clear, cold voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Mr. Ethan Vincent, please wait.”
Ethan turned, surprised to see Gemma Farley, Slytherin’s current prefect.
Her long hair flowed like silk, and her pale face was framed by a pair of emotionless eyes that studied him coolly.
Her lips parted slightly.
“I have something to tell you.”
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