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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 54: Hogwarts is Still Too Urban
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 00:01:11 +0000 UTCIn the Gryffindor dormitory of Hogwarts Castle, the clock neared midnight. The common room blazed with light, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilly night beyond. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and a cluster of other students pressed against the windows, their eyes fixed on the distant grounds where the selection trial unfolded. The scene below was shrouded in darkness, still and silent, tempting yawns and thoughts of bed.
Then, a shift. A low roar rumbled through the night, faint by the time it reached the common room. Moments later, the ground seemed to quake, and faint red specks flickered far off in the distance.
“The Toad King’s army is rioting!” Hermione Granger declared, her face nearly pressed to the glass. Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip. “This shouldn’t be happening. A riot like that is dangerous! The professors should’ve taken precautions to prevent this!”
As if in answer, the darkened cliffside erupted in a kaleidoscope of spell-light—red, yellow, purple, weaving and clashing in a chaotic dance. Muffled shouts drifted up, barely audible but sharp with urgency. Something was clearly wrong.
“Merlin’s beard!” Ron exclaimed, his voice a mix of excitement and worry. “Nobody said the selection trial would be life-or-death from the start! Is Ethan alright? He’s only a first-year, like us!”
“Oh, come off it!” Fred and George Weasley slung their arms around Ron, grinning mischievously. “You’re both first-years, sure, but Ethan’s playing at a whole different level. You’d better step up, little brother!”
“Or grab onto his coattails while you can!” George added with a wink.
“Get lost!” Ron swatted his brothers away, muttering under his breath about how a young wizard’s ambition wasn’t the same as “clinging to someone’s leg.”
“Harry, we have to do something!” Hermione whirled to face Harry, who’d been quiet, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Ethan could be in danger! Someone must’ve provoked the Toad King, and now the whole clan’s gone mad! The professors are swamped—they might not even notice Ethan’s in trouble!” Her voice cracked as her imagination spiraled. “Oh, Merlin, what if he’s lying in a cave right now, leg broken, his treasures stolen, groaning in pain and despair? No one comes to save him, and he just… fades away, alone!”
Tears glistened in Hermione’s eyes. Harry blinked at her, caught off guard. No, Hermione, are you actually there?
“I know you’re worried,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “but let’s not panic just yet.” He paused, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Do you really think Ethan’s the one in danger?”
Hermione and Ron froze, exchanging a glance.
“Remember that painting Ethan showed us before the trial?” Harry continued, a slight shudder running through him. That eerie painting of an eye—pigments on canvas, yet so lifelike it felt like someone lurked behind it, watching. The pupil was a void, a tunnel that seemed to pull you in if you stared too long. Ethan had shared it with them, supposedly to thank them for their help, testing its effects together. Harry could’ve done without the experience. Those rolling, unblinking eyes had haunted his dreams for nights, nearly causing him to tip over a cauldron in Potions class.
At Harry’s words, Hermione and Ron fell silent, their expressions shifting as memories surfaced.
“With Ethan’s… talents,” Harry said, wincing as if the thought pained him, “he’s more likely to be the one causing trouble than the one in it.” He hesitated, then added, “This chaos? It might even be his doing.”
Meanwhile, at the heart of the selection trial, waves lapped against the rocky cliffside under a silver moon. Ethan Vincent stood alone, cobalt-blue eyes glinting with surprise as he examined a ring in his hand. The rhombus-shaped gem, black as midnight, gleamed in an elegant gold setting. As he held it, a faint pulse of magic thrummed through him, like a heartbeat resonating with his own.
“Oh, ignorant and foolish one… let me glimpse your thoughts…” A low, muffled voice drifted through the air, distorted as if spoken through thick glass. Ethan barely caught the words. A haze clouded his vision, a wisp of mist coiling into his mind. Then, abruptly, the ring’s magic stilled, recoiling like a startled cat brushing against a hot surface. It dulled, becoming nothing more than an ordinary trinket—a ring of un★known★sig★nificance.
Ethan shrugged and tossed it into the leather bag where his paintings were stashed. A fleeting roar echoed in his ears, familiar yet fleeting. He dismissed it. Magical items weren’t rare, and this one was a fine trophy, proof of his success in the trial. Thank you for the gift, Senior Sean. Rest in peace. A sly, joyful smile curved his lips. Trophies could be kept as souvenirs, after all.
The wait dragged on. Ethan sat cross-legged on the ground, propping his chin in his hand, gazing at the dazzling display of spell-lights ahead. Red, yellow, purple—they burst and intertwined like fireworks, punctuated by the occasional excited shout from other students. “Hogwarts is still too urban,” he murmured, half to himself. He’d have to show Luna this spectacle someday.
His gaze shifted to Penelope Clearwater, her face streaked with dirt, slumped nearby. He’d pulled her out through a portal when the chaos erupted. Now, she stared at him, mouth agape, as if she’d lost her mind. Being alone with Hogwarts’ most infamous heartthrob was the stuff of envy for many girls, but Penelope’s wide eyes held only terror.
She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but she knew who was responsible. This boy, with his innocent smile and easy charm, was the architect of the chaos. How foolish she’d been to think Ethan’s mind was immature. He knew precisely what he was doing—more than anyone here. Once he set his sights on a goal, he pursued it relentlessly, crushing anything in his path.
Penelope’s only solace was that she’d stood by him earlier, out of admiration and perhaps pity. Ethan, at least, showed a flicker of care for those who helped him. But the memory of Sean’s broken form, whisked away by the portal, made her shiver. Headmaster Dumbledore, why not make Ethan a Prefect next term? She couldn’t handle him. Tears pricked her eyes as she hugged her knees, trembling.
Time passed, and the spell-lights faded. The “fireworks” dimmed, and shadowy figures emerged from the distance, swaying with exhaustion. Ethan stood, casting a quick cleaning charm on himself. His black robe fluttered in the night breeze, revealing a tall, lean frame. Not a speck of dirt marred his fair face, his features sharp and striking, like a portrait brought to life. His dark hair, tousled by the wind, only added to his roguish charm.
In contrast, the others were a mess. Professors, caked in mud, looked like they’d crawled through a swamp. Students sprawled on the ground, disheveled and spent, like refugees fleeing a disaster. Ethan, pristine and composed, might as well have stepped out of a formal dinner.
“Good evening, everyone,” he called, his tone light and teasing. “Is the selection trial over?”
Silence answered him. The group stared, their eyes dull with fatigue, taking in the stark contrast between Ethan’s effortless poise and their own bedraggled state.
