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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 56: Voldemort’s Command
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 00:01:30 +0000 UTCEthan Vincent trailed behind the procession of professors and students, their silhouettes swallowed by the looming shadow of Hogwarts Castle. The night air clung to him as he climbed the long stone steps and passed through the towering oak doors, their creaks echoing in the vast entrance hall.
As the only one unscathed, Ethan parted ways with the group headed for the Hospital Wing. He veered toward the Ravenclaw common room, nestled high in the tower. Before they split, Professor Snape drew close, his presence as imposing as ever. His hair hung in greasy, disheveled strands, his robes tattered and streaked with slime that could rival a troll’s snot. A touch of Spinner’s End grit, Ethan mused silently, though he kept the thought locked behind a mischievous grin. Voicing it might cost him fifty points in Potions for something as trivial as stirring a cauldron with the wrong hand.
“What’s wrong, Professor Snape?” Ethan asked, tilting his head with an innocent smile, as if he hadn’t noticed the professor’s bedraggled state.
Snape leaned in, his hooked nose casting a shadow over Ethan’s face. His voice slithered like a serpent’s hiss. “You’d best pray you’ve memorized your Potions textbook front to back, Mr. Vincent. And that includes the advanced texts.” His eyes glinted with menace. “Otherwise, Ravenclaw’s lead might slip. You wouldn’t want the other professors learning what you did to your peers during the trial, would you?”
Ethan blinked, his lips parting to retort—likely with something starting with “Li—” but Snape cut him off.
“Enough!” Snape’s face twisted, his trembling finger hovering near his chest as if restraining a reflex. This insolent boy. His eyes narrowed, studying Ethan’s fair, almost angelic features. He half-wished he could douse the boy with a potion to mar that smug face with blisters. Yet, undeniably, Ethan was a prodigy. In Potions, Snape’s relentless scrutiny found no flaws—every assignment was flawless, every brew perfection. And then there was Ethan’s unsettling knack for the Dark Arts. Even before setting foot in Hogwarts, he’d sketched forbidden runes that sent Ministry officials into a panic. Since arriving, he’d turned the school into his personal laboratory, conjuring chaos with gleeful abandon.
Harming classmates? Stealing glory? Snape almost admired the boy’s ruthlessness. If only he could avoid collateral damage.
“Every student chosen for the challenge may select a mentor,” Snape said, his voice low and deliberate. “You might think Professor Flitwick, your own Head of House, is sufficient…” He paused, letting the words hang. “But in magic, you cannot compete with upperclassmen who’ve had years more training. You need… unconventional methods. Skills you can master in two months.”
Potions, perhaps. Or a touch of harmless Dark Arts.
“And I,” Snape continued, straightening slightly, “could offer guidance while instructing my Slytherins.”
Choose me, boy. Choose me.
Ethan paused, catching the unspoken plea. Snape was stretched thin, juggling his Slytherin proteges. A subtle offer, wrapped in that greasy exterior, betraying a flicker of warmth beneath.
“I understand, Professor. Thank you,” Ethan said with a nod, his tone earnest. I won’t stir up trouble for you.
Snape gave a curt nod, satisfied. Even a wicked little artist with a mind like a rampaging giant could grasp such an obvious hint. With a triumphant swirl of his robes, Snape strode off, already envisioning Ethan crushing rival schools under his tutelage.
Ethan watched the professor’s figure vanish around the corner. With a light step, he activated a portal, teleporting in short bursts up to the Ravenclaw Tower. All those stairs, and still no muscles to win an argument. There’s the problem.
Meanwhile, in the Hospital Wing, the silence was broken by a faint, rodent-like gnawing from between the bedframes.
“I’ll do it, I’ll do it… Please, Master…” A muffled scream followed, the bed creaking as if its occupant writhed in agony.
“Useless!” a voice hissed, cold and venomous. “To think I must rely on a wretch like you…”
“I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry—”
“You’ve failed to kill Harry Potter. You’ve failed to seize the Philosopher’s Stone. But there’s a new opportunity…” The voice grew sly. “Ethan Vincent. That boy’s potential dwarfs yours by leagues.”
“Go to him. Teach him your true skills. He won’t care about your methods. Knowledge, wealth, the hidden paths only Dark Wizards tread—give him everything.”
“Yes, Master,” came the trembling reply.
“In ancient times, wizards wove runes into arrays, channeling the raw power of the world. That art is nearly lost, known only to a few scholars. Yet Ethan Vincent, with his spells and sketches, mimics those ancient arrays.” The voice grew fervent. “This talent could shake the Wizarding World. Do not fail me again, Quirrell. You know the consequences.”
“Yes, Master!”
A sudden clamor of footsteps interrupted, and the Hospital Wing’s doors burst open. A fishy stench, like lake-bottom rot, flooded the room as the lights flickered on. The once-spacious ward was now crammed with groaning students.
“Madam Pomfrey! Quickly, a student’s fainted!” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, sharp with urgency. Her eyes landed on Professor Quirrell, slumped on a sickbed, and she started. “Oh, good evening, Professor Quirrell. How’s your recovery? Apologies, the trial just ended—it’s chaos.”
“I’m… fine, fine,” Quirrell stammered, forcing a smile. “I’ll be discharged tomorrow. Thank you.” His red-rimmed eyes betrayed recent tears.
“Are these students alright?” Quirrell asked, glancing at the grimacing group. One boy, the worst off, sported a broken leg, a swollen forehead, and blood-soaked robes.
McGonagall’s face darkened. “I hate to suspect my own students, but I fear Mr. Vincent had a hand in this.”
Quirrell froze. “Mr. Vincent? Ethan Vincent?”
“Yes,” McGonagall said grimly. “According to Professor Snape, Ethan conjured a portal from a distance and fired arrows to provoke the Toad King, sending the entire group into chaos.”
A portal from a distance… Quirrell’s eyes flickered with awe. It had been barely a week since Halloween, and Ethan’s skill had already grown. Given time, what kind of monster might he become?
