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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 40: The Giant Monster: I Came Quietly, Just as I Left Quietly
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 16:09:43 +0000 UTCA pristine white brushstroke sliced through the air.
As if tearing a rift in the fabric of space, a cascade of vibrant colors poured forth.
They danced in the air like scattered starlight, a constellation of iridescent sparks.
Hermione stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape, utterly captivated by the spectacle.
Her understanding of magic was still rooted in the basics—waving a wand, casting beams of light, striking a target.
She had never imagined magic could be this breathtaking, this wondrous.
In the trio’s line of sight, Ethan Vincent’s lips curved into a faint, effortless smile.
He didn’t need to force control; the magic flowed naturally from the paintbrush in his hand.
Painting, at its core, was an expression of the soul—a process not so different from casting a spell.
“Whoosh—”
The vibrant hues condensed and shifted in midair.
At last, they coalesced into golden birds, each no larger than a palm.
Their shimmering bodies glowed with a radiant, flowing light, their sweet chirps filling the air as they flitted nimbly about, both beautiful and enchanting.
One even circled playfully around the trio.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile.
The reflection of the tiny birds glinted in Harry’s round spectacles, stirring memories of the flying motorcycle from his childhood dreams—a symbol of wonder and magic, his sole comfort in a bleak reality.
But the moment of awe was short-lived.
A guttural roar shattered the tranquility, yanking Harry back to reality.
A towering troll, three meters tall, loomed less than ten paces away.
Its grotesque features were starkly visible—the boils dotting its head, its furious, greedy, pea-sized eyes glinting with malice.
“Roar—!”
The troll raised its massive club with gleeful anticipation, eager to crush the four small figures into pulp.
To its primitive mind, these children clutching their flimsy wands posed no threat.
One swing, and they’d be nothing more than a smear on the floor.
The chirping golden birds? Not even worth a second thought—too small to be a snack.
“Ethan!”
Harry’s voice trembled as he clutched Ethan’s robes, his wand gripped tightly in his other hand, his mind blank with panic.
They should run.
But how could they abandon Ethan?
He must have noticed their absence and come searching for them in Herpo the Foul’s Abandoned Mansion, right into the Hidden Room in the Tapestry!
Ron’s eyes were squeezed shut, his body huddled behind Ethan.
“Crazy, all crazy,” he muttered under his breath, his words a jumble of fear and reluctant faith in Ethan’s abilities.
As the troll’s club rose high, poised to strike, Harry acted before his brain could catch up.
In a single, desperate lunge, he threw himself in front of Ethan, arms spread wide, staring down the massive club descending toward them.
What am I doing?
Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Harry’s gaze locked onto the club, as thick as a tree trunk, his mind conjuring grim images of being pounded into “Harry paste.”
He should have dragged Ethan and fled.
Standing here, he couldn’t stop anything.
In the end, he was powerless to protect anyone.
Yet, as the troll loomed, a blinding green light flashed before Harry’s eyes.
“Go.”
A soft, commanding voice cut through the chaos, clear and cold as a mountain spring.
In Harry’s peripheral vision, he saw Ethan’s paintbrush, its tip stained with vibrant pigment, aimed directly at the troll.
On the other side of the corridor, Professor McGonagall froze mid-step, her sharp gaze fixed on the Ravenclaw girl before her.
“What? You’re saying Mr. Vincent is gone?”
Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw’s soon-to-be Prefect, nodded frantically.
“I’m sorry, Professor. By the time I realized, Ethan had already vanished.”
McGonagall pressed a hand to her forehead, a faint buzzing filling her mind.
That boy, Ethan Vincent, was far too reckless.
She hadn’t even deducted points from Ravenclaw yet for his antics.
Beside her, Professor Snape’s lips curled into a sardonic smirk.
“Perhaps our esteemed Mr. Vincent fancies himself capable of facing a troll single-handedly,” he drawled. “After all, he’s already bested a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, hasn’t he?”
For reasons unknown, Snape seemed utterly unperturbed, his demeanor almost leisurely.
McGonagall shot her colleague a withering glance, unimpressed by his flippant remark.
Student safety was her priority, and she had no patience for Snape’s cavalier attitude.
Still, according to Professor Quirrell, the troll was supposed to be in the underground classroom.
Ethan wandering off elsewhere surely didn’t mean he was confronting a troll—
“Roar!!!”
An unearthly bellow echoed from the far end of the corridor.
The group froze.
Snape’s smug smile faltered, his composure cracking.
They exchanged alarmed glances, the realization dawning on them all.
Penelope, Robert, and Shawn stared at one another in shock.
That was unmistakably the troll’s roar—and it wasn’t coming from the underground classroom.
It was upstairs.
Ethan might actually be facing it!
“Heh, idiot,” Shawn muttered with a soft chuckle, picturing the arrogant Ethan laid up in the hospital wing for weeks.
“Quick, hurry!” McGonagall barked, breaking into a sprint.
Snape’s leisurely demeanor vanished, his expression now grim as he followed.
The group raced toward the source of the roar, professors and Ravenclaw students alike charging down the corridor.
As they rounded the corner, breathless, an astonishing sight greeted them.
Golden meteors streaked across the corridor, blazing like sacred arrows.
Their radiant trails carried an aura of untouchable divinity, piercing their target and pinning it to the far wall with ferocious precision.
Bang!
A deep, resonant thud echoed like a drumbeat, the shockwave reverberating through the air, stirring their hair and forcing their eyes shut.
Dust rose in clouds, mingling with shattered stone.
“Th-this is—”
Prefect Robert squinted through the haze, his eyes widening with astonishment.
A figure emerged from the dust.
Flowing black hair, piercing cobalt blue eyes.
Splashes of vibrant paint swirled around him, adding a vivid glow to the pale moonlight.
The boy stood tall, his right hand extended, wand in place of the paintbrush, his stance unwavering—one foot forward, poised like a knight aiming a blade at a foe.
His gaze was cold, resolute, unyielding.
Even with Harry standing protectively in front of him, there was no mistaking it.
At this moment, Ethan Vincent was the guardian of the trio.
“Well, Miss Granger, did you see that clearly?”
Ethan’s voice was gentle, almost teasing, as he lowered his wand—the paintbrush now fully transformed back.
He turned to Hermione, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
“Any guesses on how much magic influences a spell?”
Before him, the troll was pinned to the wall, its granite-like skin pierced clean through by a wound as thick as a wrist.
Hermione’s eyes widened, her usually sharp mind sluggish, overwhelmed.
She stared at the gaping wound, a single thought echoing in her head:
This is “Flock of Birds”?
It was no flock—it was a spear, a cannon!
Coach, don’t lie to me!!!
At the corridor’s edge, Shawn’s face darkened as he took in the scene.
The troll, barely clinging to life, had been defeated in a single blow.
Who’s the real monster here?
He couldn’t bring himself to meet the gazes of Robert and Penelope, their mocking stares burning into him.
His face flushed hotter with every passing second.
