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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 34: Halloween, I’m So Hot!
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 17:27:45 +0000 UTC“The Master himself has spoken!”
Quirrell’s eyes narrowed, his body tensing instinctively as he scrutinized Ethan Vincent.
Handsome and tall, Ethan carried an air of effortless charm, even when issuing threats to a professor. His expression remained warm, almost polite, as if he were merely discussing the weather. How could the Master take an interest in this boy? Ethan seemed utterly disconnected from the dark forces—an arrogant upstart, nothing more. His spat with Malfoy was just a childish tantrum, the kind of recklessness born of youthful ignorance. A newborn calf, fearless only because it hadn’t yet met a true predator.
If Ethan ever crossed paths with a real Dark Wizard, he’d probably be reduced to tears in moments. And that Living Painting he’d created? Any wizard with a modicum of skill could enchant a portrait with magic far superior to that boy’s amateur efforts. The animated portraits lining Hogwarts’ halls were proof enough of that.
Quirrell grumbled inwardly, his thoughts a tangled mix of disdain and confusion. Still, he dared not defy Lord Voldemort’s orders.
“V-very well,” he stammered, forcing the words out. “Since you insist, I’ll tell you…”
During Quirrell’s long-winded explanation, Ethan pieced together the legend of Herpo the Foul. In a single sentence: he was the progenitor of Dark Wizards. A figure from ancient Greece, Herpo was among the earliest and most infamous Dark Wizards in magical history, known as “Herpo the Foul.” His legacy rested on two chilling achievements.
First, he created the Basilisk, a monstrous serpent hatched from a rooster’s egg incubated beneath a toad. Its gaze could petrify or kill any creature foolish enough to meet its eyes. That very creature, Ethan learned, now slumbered beneath Hogwarts, summoned decades ago by a young Lord Voldemort, leaving one student dead in its wake.
Second, Herpo invented the Horcrux, a forbidden ritual that split the soul through heinous murder, tethering the caster to life even after their body perished. It was, of course, Lord Voldemort’s signature technique.
So, Herpo was Voldemort’s mentor, in a way. Whatever lay hidden in Herpo’s abandoned mansion was likely as valuable—or as dangerous—as the Philosopher’s Stone itself. Perhaps both. Ethan’s curiosity ignited, a spark of excitement flickering in his chest.
Dark Arts creations, forbidden relics, things the wizarding world deemed untouchable… now that was intriguing.
“Heh, heh heh…” Ethan let out a soft, chilling laugh, the sound carrying an eerie edge that seemed to lower the temperature in the classroom.
“I-I feel a bit cold…” Ron muttered, rubbing his arms. “It’s like a Dementor’s nearby. My dad says it always gets freezing when they’re around.”
“But it’s just Ethan here, hahaha,” Harry added with a forced chuckle, though his thoughts were less amused: Aside from species, Ethan’s practically a Dementor himself. Just as creepy.
As the class dragged on, Ethan’s mind wandered to Herpo’s mansion. The moss-covered bark had not only taught him the full Erised spell but also revealed the mansion’s precise location: nestled in the Lake District of northern England, near Wast Water in Cumbria. It lay deep within the “Great Rotting Swamp,” a treacherous mire that consumed all who entered, teeming with fungi and shrouded in poisonous fog. Dense forests encircled it, adding to its sinister allure—a perfect hideout for a Dark Wizard.
“It’s too much for me to tackle alone,” Ethan murmured to himself. The distance alone—hundreds of kilometers from Hogwarts—made Apparition impractical. It was like a starving man being offered a gourmet feast: all the desire in the world, but no way to indulge.
He sighed, scratching his head in frustration. “Let’s table the treasure hunt for now. Maybe summer vacation will bring an opportunity.”
His focus shifted. “For now, I’ll pour everything into the Halloween art exhibition. My debut’s got to leave them speechless~”
As he schemed, the class bell rang, shattering his reverie. Like the other students, Ethan leapt to his feet, eager to escape the garlic-soaked classroom. But before he could flee, a wave of pungent odor hit him like a brick wall.
The smell arrived before the man.
Even Ethan, ever composed and amicable, couldn’t suppress a grimace of disgust.
“V-Vincent, please wait a moment…” Professor Quirrell approached, his strained smile overshadowed by the massive purple turban looming uncomfortably close to Ethan’s face. The stench—a nauseating blend of garlic and something faintly rotten—was worse than sniffing a sweaty sock after a Quidditch match.
Ethan took two quick steps back. “Sorry, Professor, I’m allergic to garlic. Gotta run.”
Without a backward glance, he strode out. Want to get close to me? Lose the garlic first.
Quirrell’s smile froze, his eyes widening with a flicker of fear as he watched Ethan’s retreating figure. Only after the classroom emptied did he collapse into a squat, trembling.
“I’m sorry, Master… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice pleading. “I’ll do whatever it takes to seize Ethan Vincent’s skill…”
“‘Help me’?” the voice in his head hissed. “Do you think I need your help?!”
“Y-yes, ‘for you,’ Master!” Quirrell corrected hastily. “I’ll give everything for you…”
“I never imagined I’d be reduced to parasitizing a coward like you,” the voice sneered. “No matter. There’s no rush to deal with the boy. The priority is the Philosopher’s Stone. Get it for me—soon.”
“Yes, Master!” Quirrell replied, voice barely above a whisper. “Before Halloween, I’ll create a diversion, slip through the trapdoor, and retrieve the Stone…”
“You’d better not fail me,” the voice warned, “or you know what awaits.”
Quirrell nodded fervently, his back hunched as the voice faded. He exhaled, relieved, but his eyes darkened with resolve. Ethan Vincent, enjoy your arrogance while it lasts.
Once he secured the Philosopher’s Stone for his Master, Ethan and his absurd paintings would belong to Lord Voldemort.
Taking a deep breath, Quirrell hurried from the classroom, determined to make his plan foolproof. Who would suspect the stammering, pitiful Professor Quirrell of acting before the holiday? Perhaps Snape, that meddling bat, might sense something amiss—but he’d never guess that Voldemort’s loyal servant would unleash a troll on Hogwarts.
The thought of students and professors scrambling in panic brought a twisted grin to Quirrell’s face. He could already picture Ethan’s smug expression crumpling into terror.
Meanwhile, Ethan was consumed with preparations for his art exhibition. Painting after painting, his brush danced with unrelenting precision. Since he’d genuinely forgotten how to access the Room of Requirement, he worked mostly in his dormitory, shared with Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein.
Though Ethan stored his finished works in a cowhide bag enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm—and playfully told his roommates they were “nifty little tools” for later—they kept their distance. Eventually, they started sleeping in the common room.
They’re probably just being considerate, not wanting to disturb my work, Ethan thought, touched by their supposed kindness. He resolved to invite them to the exhibition’s grand reveal.
During this time, Ethan also made a few trips to Hagrid’s hut with Harry and Ron, securing materials from magical creatures: unicorn hair, vibrant phoenix feathers, and even a few authentic dragon scales, their dark green sheen glimmering like starlight.
He wove these into his paintings, blending them with the Erised spell to create what he dubbed a “golden legend.”
Time raced forward.
At last, October 31st arrived—the night before Halloween, a date brimming with anticipation and hidden currents.
