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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 52: Do You Like My Grand Fury? Speak!
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 23:15:32 +0000 UTCThe Giant Purple Toad King's Cave.
The jagged floor of the cave was slick with stagnant lake water, its surface rippling with a briny, fishy stench that clawed at the senses. Moisture clung to the walls in heavy patches, rendering them treacherously slippery. Stalactites jutted toward the shadowed ceiling, glowing faintly with an eerie purple phosphorescence that dimly lit the labyrinthine passages within.
“The Slytherin Prefect has already gone ahead,” Penelope Clearwater said, her voice low but urgent. “We need to move quickly—Ah!”
Her sudden shriek pierced the air, making Sean jump in front of her.
“Are you trying to wake every monster in this place?!” Sean hissed, exasperated, but his irritation faltered when he saw Penelope’s wide-eyed stare, her mouth agape as if frozen in horror. She was fixated on something behind him.
Sean’s heart plummeted. A chill prickled his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. Trembling, he turned slowly to look over his shoulder—
Nothing.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Sean exhaled sharply, relief mingling with annoyance.
Penelope was silent for a moment, then bit her lip. “...Sorry, I must have imagined it,” she murmured.
Just for a fleeting second, she could have sworn she saw an eyeball on Sean’s back. A living, rolling eyeball, glinting with malevolent awareness. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone. Shivering at the memory, Penelope shook her head, dismissing the creeping dread, and pressed forward.
In the unseen darkness, a round, gleaming eyeball reappeared behind Sean. It opened slowly, watching.
...
Deep within the cave, Professor Severus Snape stood in the cold, foul-smelling lair, his expression as grim as the dank surroundings.
Damn it all, he thought bitterly. Why was he here, standing in this wretched place in the dead of night instead of sleeping comfortably in his quarters? Behind him loomed piles of treasure, glistening with toad slime. Beyond that, a massive, shadowy form filled the passage, its bulk rising and falling rhythmically.
The Giant Purple Toad King was asleep, lulled by the potent Sleeping Potion Snape had brewed. Unless directly attacked, it wouldn’t stir—not even if the students’ footsteps echoed like a rampaging troll.
Of course, Snape was certain no student would be foolish enough to provoke the beast or its kin. He trusted Gemma Farley, the exemplary Slytherin Prefect, to arrive first. And then there was Ethan Vincent.
It was undeniable: Snape had taken on the final, most critical part of the selection process—to see where that infuriating boy would place. Absently, Snape’s hand brushed his chest, where a portrait Ethan had once drawn for him was tucked safely away.
Hmph. Though the boy was peculiar—equal parts charming and unnerving—this trial should pose no real challenge for him. Unlike other professors, Snape didn’t believe grades defined ability. When he’d first arrived at Hogwarts, he’d already surpassed most seventh-years in the Dark Arts. Talent like that was rare.
Snape smirked, imagining how he’d taunt Ethan when the boy arrived, covered in slime and filth. But a sudden chill swept over him, and he shivered, pulling his robes tighter and casting another Warming Charm.
Drip, drip. Water fell steadily from the stalactites.
After an interminable wait, footsteps echoed—sharp and purposeful. A tall, slender figure emerged, her curly dark blonde hair tied high in a neat ponytail that swayed with her confident strides. Dirt streaked her fair face, but her emerald-green eyes gleamed with calm determination.
It was Gemma Farley, Slytherin’s Prefect.
“Professor Snape,” she greeted softly, unfazed by his presence.
“Hmm. Not bad,” Snape said, nodding slightly as he stepped aside to let her and her team claim their spoils.
Next should be Ethan, shouldn’t it? Second place was respectable, especially against a Prefect as capable as Gemma.
But Snape was wrong.
Soon after Gemma’s team departed, heavy, thudding footsteps announced another arrival. Snape raised an eyebrow and took a cautious half-step back. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s Quidditch Captain, lumbered in like a bear, his eyes wide as he scanned the lair warily. When he spotted Snape, his face twisted as though Slytherin had just snatched the Snitch from under his nose.
Snape opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark but paused, eyeing the bulging muscles straining beneath Wood’s robes. He closed his mouth. No need to stoop to the level of a troll.
But... where was Ethan? Why was he lagging behind this lumbering oaf? Snape’s brow twitched as he watched Wood’s team rummage noisily through the treasure. If he hadn’t dosed the Toad King, their racket would’ve woken the entire lair.
Luck must’ve guided them here, Snape thought, sneering. Well, luck is a form of strength. Ethan, it seemed, was simply unfortunate. Surely he wouldn’t lose third place as well?
After another stretch of waiting, a third set of footsteps approached.
They’re here! Snape’s spirits lifted, his eyes narrowing as he peered down the passage. It had to be Ethan. That boy had caused him endless headaches, practically turning Hogwarts upside down with his antics. He couldn’t possibly fail to secure third—
But reality struck again. It wasn’t Ethan. Instead, two Ravenclaw students and two from Slytherin stumbled in, their robes caked in mud as if they’d rolled through a swamp. They sighed in relief at the sight of the treasure.
“...Did you see Mr. Ethan Vincent on your way here?” Snape asked, unable to resist.
The students exchanged glances. One Ravenclaw, with a hint of disdain, said cautiously, “He’s still at the starting point, Professor. Probably gave up, thinking he had no chance.”
Snape’s eyebrows shot up. Still at the starting point? Impossible. Ethan wasn’t the type to sit idly by. That boy was a storm in human form—calm on the surface, but provoke him, and he’d retaliate with twice the force. Just look at Draco Malfoy, tamed into a docile lamb after crossing Ethan. Snape had known the Malfoys for years and had never seen Draco so subdued.
A wave of unease crept over Snape, spreading like ink in water. He gripped his wand, sweat beading in his palm. What was Ethan planning? What was that wicked boy scheming?
His breath grew heavy, the damp air clinging to his lungs like a net. He scanned the darkness, half-expecting Ethan’s cobalt-blue eyes to glint from the shadows, that unsettling smile fixed on him and the oblivious students.
Where is he? Where?!
But nothing happened. The team finished selecting their spoils and left.
Snape exhaled, chuckling at his own paranoia. Overthinking it.
Then, his gaze flicked to the Ravenclaw boy’s back—and froze. A blood-red eyeball stared back at him, pulsing with life.
Snape’s heart stopped. His body locked under the weight of shock.
In the next instant, a pitch-black door tore open the void before him. On the other side stood Ethan Vincent—the “missing” boy. Behind him stretched an open cliff, not the cave’s interior. But he wasn’t idle. In his hand was a paintbrush, and around him fluttered golden birds, radiant and divine, their songs like hymns of joy.
Snape’s eyes widened, his voice erupting in a desperate cry: “No—”
Too late.
The golden birds turned, their sacred beauty twisting into deadly precision. They shot through the door like arrows, blazing meteors piercing the cave’s gloom. They struck the sleeping Toad King.
Splatter. Blood sprayed. The beast’s rubbery hide took only a shallow wound, but it was enough.
“Croak!!!”
The earth quaked. Dust rained from the ceiling, stalactites snapping and crashing like a volley of arrows.
“What’s happening?!” Sean and the others, clutching their spoils, turned in panic, their faces pale as the scene morphed from a school trial into a apocalyptic nightmare.
Snape—Professor Severus Snape, guardian of the final checkpoint—stood frozen. In his mind, two words echoed:
It’s over.
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