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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 28: But He Gave Too Much
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 14:33:08 +0000 UTCA Hogwarts life without detention is like a wand without magic—utterly incomplete.
Ethan Vincent understood this truth all too well.
Under Professor Flitwick’s earnest mediation, Ethan’s detention was scheduled for the following Monday. The official reason? To ensure this "exemplary student" could complete his weekend assignments without delay.
“I firmly believe a young wizard like Mr. Vincent, who adheres to school rules and dedicates himself to his studies, would never intentionally harm a fellow student,” Professor Flitwick declared with unwavering conviction. He gave Ethan’s arm a reassuring pat, as if to say, Don’t worry, lad. Poor boy, tangled up with a family as prickly as the Malfoys. All Ethan wanted was to study and nurture his little hobby at Hogwarts. What crime had he committed? Winning a duel? How bold! Ravenclaw could use more of that fighting spirit! Flitwick’s dueling-master heart blazed with pride.
“I’m not questioning Mr. Vincent’s character…” Professor McGonagall began, her eyebrows arching sharply. Ethan had been performing remarkably well lately, a fact all the professors had noticed. The duel in question had been provoked by Draco Malfoy, who, frankly, had earned his thrashing.
Yet… McGonagall’s thoughts drifted to the so-called “Ethan Speech Manifesto” that had been circulating among the students. Since the duel, tensions between Gryffindor and Slytherin had flared. In one particularly chaotic Potions class, both houses had managed to explode their cauldrons, prompting Professor Snape to deduct fifteen points from each—only to quietly restore Slytherin’s points later, of course. The root of these incidents always seemed to trace back, however subtly, to Ethan’s shadow.
McGonagall glanced up and found herself caught in Ethan’s gaze. His cobalt-blue eyes were serene, almost tranquil, like a frozen lake in winter. When he smiled, his fair face glowed with an almost angelic charm. Against her better judgment, McGonagall’s stern heart softened.
Oh, well, she thought. I’ll keep a closer eye on him in the future. After all, You-Know-Who was gone, and an era of peace had settled over Hogwarts. The school thrived in a wholesome, scholarly atmosphere—surely it couldn’t produce another Dark Lord. The very idea was absurd. Even if Ethan harbored mischief, how bad could it be? All he wanted was to pursue his art. McGonagall had always admired students with clear ambitions and tireless dedication.
“Very well,” she said. “You’ll assist Mr. Filch next Monday, and you needn’t worry about anything else.” If Lucius Malfoy came sniffing around, stirring trouble, the staff would handle it.
“Mm, alright,” Ethan replied, nodding with earnest sincerity. “I’ll do my best.”
The Trophy Room… perhaps he’d catch a glimpse of Tom Riddle’s old awards. Ethan’s heart thrummed with anticipation for this nighttime “stroll”—er, detention.
What a well-mannered boy, McGonagall thought, her heart warmed by his compliance. After years of wrangling Gryffindor’s rambunctious lot, she couldn’t help but reach out and ruffle Ethan’s soft hair. A rare smile softened her usually severe expression.
However, despite the professors’ efforts to smooth things over, Ethan crossed paths with the Malfoy father and son as they stormed through a corridor. Draco looked as though he’d been crying again, his head bowed, shoulders trembling faintly. Lucius, meanwhile, wore an expression as sour as if a house-elf had lobbed a rancid sock at his face—dark and grim, like a thirty-year-old shoe sole from his grandmother’s attic.
“Out of the way!” Lucius hissed through clenched teeth, jabbing his snake-headed cane to shove aside an unfortunate student in his path. He didn’t spare a glance for his sniffling son, striding forward with purpose.
“Mr. Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall called, hurrying after them with a stern edge to her voice. “I must remind you, this is Hogwarts—”
“Oh, is it?” Lucius halted, lifting his chin haughtily. “How fortunate, then, that I recall being a Hogwarts governor.”
At that moment, his sharp eyes caught sight of Ethan emerging from the Great Hall.
“Oh, look who we have here,” Lucius drawled, his lips curling into a crocodile’s smile. “The great orator, practically a second ‘savior’ to rival Harry Potter—” His gaze slid to Michael Corner, who had stepped protectively in front of Ethan. “—and his loyal shadow.”
What’s this? The kid stirs trouble, and the father swoops in? Ethan thought, amused. Why am I so popular?
Raising an eyebrow, he gently nudged Michael aside and stepped forward, meeting Lucius’s gaze with unflinching confidence. A mischievous spark flickered in his mind. Should I challenge him to a warrior’s duel? Or maybe a broomstick rash hex? No—why not both? He imagined enchanting his fists with a broomstick rash effect and pummeling Lucius senseless. If questioned later, he’d claim Lucius was allergic to human skin. The more he mulled it over, the more brilliant the plan seemed. His eyes gleamed with wicked delight.
Lucius felt an inexplicable chill, as if some unseen malice had fixed its gaze on him. He looked down at the eleven-year-old before him, unfazed by an adult’s presence, radiating a subtle air of menace. Glancing around, Lucius noted the students watching intently from the sidelines. The Gryffindors, in particular, looked ready to charge at the slightest provocation.
Hmph. Reckless as ever, Lucius thought. Yet he couldn’t deny it: Ethan Vincent, so poised, sharp-witted, and influential at such a young age, was a force to be reckoned with. Harry Potter had stumbled into fame as a child, but Ethan had carved his reputation at Hogwarts through sheer cunning and effort. If he matured, he’d surely become a formidable figure.
A dangerous glint flashed in Lucius’s narrowed eyes. Best to act now, then.
“Draco was… reckless earlier, Mr. Vincent. Please don’t hold it against him,” Lucius said, forcing a smile that dripped with insincerity. After all, a Malfoy knew how to play the long game, even if it meant groveling to a promising talent.
“Father?!” Draco’s head snapped up, his voice cracking with disbelief.
Even Ethan quirked a brow, studying Lucius’s sudden shift with keen interest.
“Silence, Draco,” Lucius snapped, his tone icy. The more he looked at his son, the more useless he seemed. “You provoked Mr. Vincent repeatedly, and yet he graciously overlooked your offenses. Shouldn’t you thank him?”
Draco looked as though his world had shattered.
Ethan almost pitied him. Almost. But—when had he ever “overlooked” anything? Narrowing his eyes, he prepared a biting retort, a cold glint flashing in his gaze. Before he could speak, Lucius produced a dark brown bag—cowhide, by the look of it—and extended it toward him.
“A small token of goodwill from the Malfoy family,” Lucius said smoothly.
Money? Ethan smirked inwardly. Typical Malfoys, thinking gold solves everything.
He didn’t move to take it.
“There are seven hundred Galleons inside,” Lucius continued. “Consider it support for your… artistic pursuits.”
Ethan’s smile faltered. His eyes widened slightly, betraying a flicker of shock.
Seven hundred Galleons?!
The Triwizard Tournament’s prize, for which wizards had risked their lives, was only a thousand Galleons—barely three hundred more than this! With that sum, he could buy the finest art supplies, fund his projects for months, and free up time to prepare for the Halloween art exhibition.
But.
No! He couldn’t be so spineless! To accept money from the Malfoys? To be bought by their filthy gold? Unthinkable!
Ethan clenched his fists, jaw tight, ready to refuse the tantalizing fortune.
Lucius, sensing hesitation, added casually, “Oh, and the bag is enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. I thought it might be useful for storing your art supplies.”
Ethan’s resolve crumbled. He snatched the bag, flashing a dazzling smile. “No need to be so formal, Mr. Malfoy. Draco and I are the best of friends, aren’t we, Draco?”
He tilted his head, grinning at the trembling Malfoy heir.
Ethan swore he’d meant to refuse. But that blasted Lucius had given too much!
Draco quivered under the combined weight of his father’s glare and Ethan’s mocking smile. At last, he managed a tearful, wavering grin.
Sniff.
