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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 39: The True and Perfect Brush!
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 16:08:15 +0000 UTCPenelope stood frozen, her mind reeling.
A first-year wizard taking on a troll?
Utter madness!
No matter how talented Ethan Vincent was, he’d only been at Hogwarts for a few months. First-year Charms hadn’t even progressed beyond the Levitation Charm! Trolls, with their thick, magic-resistant hides, were a nightmare even for seasoned wizards. Perhaps a skilled seventh-year might stand a chance alone, but a first-year? He’d be lucky not to collapse in terror at the sight of one. Even Ethan’s so-called “portal” magic, impressive as it was, couldn’t possibly teleport a creature that massive.
This was no test—it was a blatant setup, an excuse to keep Ethan out of the club!
“You—” Penelope began, her voice sharp with indignation.
“Let’s hold off,” Prefect Robert interjected, his tone soothing as he cut through the brewing argument. “There’s always next year to invite Ethan into the club.”
Though, by then, Ethan might not even care to join. Robert’s thoughts drifted. By that time, I’ll be off at the Ministry of Magic, so why waste energy on these petty plots? He glanced at Shane, who wore a smug grin, and shook his head inwardly. Shane, Shane… treating a rival like this isn’t just about pushing them away or keeping them down.
Look at Draco Malfoy—now there was a Slytherin who knew how to play the game. One cheek bruised from a hit, and he’d still turn the other, simpering about “Master’s grace.” That was finesse. Shane? Far too green.
Penelope pouted, her shoulders slumping in frustration. “Fine…”
Her gaze swept over the crowd of younger students, searching for Ethan’s tall, striking figure. She genuinely admired him. Handsome, gifted, and with a personality that—while a touch dark—marked him as a true original. Geniuses were supposed to be eccentric, weren’t they?
Getting him into the club early, sharing insider knowledge, helping him build connections for the future—that would’ve been perfect. But no, jealous schemers had to ruin it.
Her eyes narrowed suddenly, confusion flickering across her face. Wait a second. She’d been scanning the crowd for ages, so where was Ethan? He wasn’t among the chattering students.
Where was he?
…
At that moment, Ethan hadn’t followed the others back to the common room. Instead, he’d veered off in another direction, trailing quietly behind Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who’d slipped away unnoticed. Unlike the two, who blended into the shadows, Ethan’s departure drew eyes. Yet no one stopped him.
Their thoughts were unanimous: Who’s about to have a bad day?
Being targeted by Ethan Vincent was a strangely poetic downfall. Just ask Professor Quirrell, who’d been left floating mid-air, blood trickling from his lips.
As Ethan rounded a corner, the clamor of the crowd faded. Moonlight poured through the diamond-paned windows, refracting into a kaleidoscope of colors that danced across the ancient stone of Hogwarts’ corridors. He paused, tilting his head to gaze at the full moon, its silver glow crisp and radiant.
A slow breath escaped him, heavy with feeling. “The moonlight’s beautiful tonight,” he murmured. “I wonder what Luna’s up to? Is she staring at this same silver disc? Or…” His lips quirked at the thought of her latest letter. “…dressed as a Dementor, knocking on doors for candy?”
Adorable.
The silence was serene, wrapping him in quiet reverence. Bathed in moonlight, Ethan’s handsome features softened, his sharp edges smoothed into something almost ethereal. He looked like a figure from a dream—a garden elf, pure and untarnished.
Around him, the enchanted portraits had fled their frames. Only the faint drip of red paint from his wand marred the scene, pooling on the floor and trailing behind him like a crimson shadow.
What a shame Hermione was too caught up in her mood to enjoy his Halloween surprise. He’d have to make it up to her. Ethan prided himself on spreading his kindness evenly, ensuring everyone got a taste of a complete childhood.
Today, he gave himself a mental pat on the back for his generosity.
Suddenly—
“Ahhh—!”
A piercing scream shattered the stillness, followed by a crash, like glass or wood splintering. Chaotic footsteps thundered closer, accompanied by frantic shouts of “Run! Run!”
Three figures barreled around the corner—Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the latter supported between them.
Ethan’s brow arched. Not the bathroom showdown anymore? No matter. The outcome wouldn’t change.
He raised his wand, and the moment Harry and Ron locked eyes with him, their panic spiked. They skidded to a halt, instinctively trying to backpedal.
Hermione blinked, bewildered. “What—?”
The troll was right behind them, so why were they turning back?
Harry and Ron’s faces were ghostly pale, their eyes fixed on Ethan’s unsettling smile. How could they explain it to her? Sure, a monstrous troll was chasing them—but the figure before them was something straight out of hell.
Before they could process, a deafening roar erupted behind them.
“ROAR—!”
A massive creature, nearly twelve feet tall, lumbered into view like a living mountain. Its granite-like skin gleamed dully, its head brushing the ceiling. Each step from its tree-stump legs sent tremors through the corridor. In one meaty hand, it dragged a wooden club along the floor.
Ethan’s smile widened. He waved cheerfully. “Over here!”
Harry and Ron froze, their faces draining of what little color remained.
Hermione, frantic and confused, tugged at them. “What are you doing?! Keep moving!”
Maybe it was Ethan’s unshakable calm, but despite being a first-year like them, standing behind him felt… safe.
The trio stumbled forward, collapsing behind Ethan with a collective sigh of relief.
Then they saw him point his wand at the troll.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione: ?!
“Y-you’re not actually going to fight that thing, are you?!” Ron yelped, clutching his face. “Merlin’s beard, we’re done for!”
“Shh.” Ethan pressed a finger to his lips, silencing Ron with a gentle smile.
He turned to Hermione. “Miss Granger, are you familiar with the spell Avis?”
Hermione flinched, her scholar’s instincts kicking in despite the chaos. “It’s… it’s the spell that summons a flock of birds, isn’t it? You can fire them at enemies as an attack.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “But you can’t seriously think that’ll work against a troll! Its skin is like stone—those birds won’t even scratch it!”
She bit her lip, catching herself mid-lecture. Old habits.
Ethan didn’t seem to mind. His eyes stayed on the approaching troll, his smile serene. “Miss Granger, have you ever noticed how the same spell can vary between an adult wizard and a young one?”
“It’s all about the strength of your soul—or, as we call it, the quantity of your magic. Think of it like a water barrel. The body’s the same, but the magic inside…”
He flicked his wand, and a burst of color erupted from its tip, accompanied by a sharp scent of nuts and minerals. Hermione’s eyes widened, reflecting the wand as it began to shift.
It stretched, reshaped, and transformed into a breathtaking paintbrush. Its sleek wooden handle was elegant yet understated, drawing the eye with its quiet beauty. The bristles at its tip gleamed snow-white, like they’d been plucked from a unicorn’s tail, radiating a soft, pure light.
The trio stared, mesmerized.
Then it clicked—this was the “perfect paintbrush” Ethan always rambled about.
They exchanged glances, their expressions turning odd. Ethan’s face was alight with joy, but… a paintbrush? So noble, so pristine—yet so utterly at odds with the boy wielding it.
Just how skewed was Ethan’s self-image?
“This,” Ethan sighed, cradling the brush, “is the paintbrush that suits me perfectly.”
His fingers curled around the cool, smooth handle, and it felt like an extension of himself. Magic flowed through it effortlessly, like water from a shared spring. Man and brush were one, a harmony that filled him with deep satisfaction.
“Now, Miss Granger, here’s a key lesson, so listen closely.”
Hermione snapped to attention at the mention of a “lesson,” her eyes locked on him.
“I’m going to show you just how much magic can shape a spell.”
He raised the brush.
“Avis.”
