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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 13: Leading to Glory
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 10:05:53 +0000 UTC?!
After a moment of stunned silence, the Great Hall erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers.
“Azkaban? Did I hear that right? The Sorting Hat said Azkaban?!”
“How is that even possible?! What was that first-year thinking…?”
“Merlin’s beard, talk about stealing the show! Is he trying to get himself killed?”
The Weasley twins exchanged looks of pure envy.
Being sorted into Azkaban? Now that was an unprecedented feat!
How in the world did Ethan pull it off?
He looked so quiet and unassuming, yet he’d gone and done something this outrageous!
In an instant, he became the center of attention.
Bloody hell! Why hadn’t they thought of pulling a prank like that?
They’d been far too tame.
On the platform, Professor McGonagall stood frozen, utterly dumbfounded.
Even if a hundred trolls stormed the Great Hall right now, she couldn’t have been more shocked.
Instinctively, she grabbed the Sorting Hat, treating it like a malfunctioning Muggle appliance, and gave it a few sharp smacks.
The Sorting Hat wheezed, “Stop hitting me! I’ll confess, alright?”
McGonagall was baffled.
How could a polite boy like Ethan end up sorted into Azkaban?
“Alright, Professor McGonagall, hand it over,” Dumbledore said, stepping in just in time to rescue the nearly suffocated hat.
“It seems our new student has played a little joke on us,” he said with a chuckle.
He looked down, meeting Ethan’s innocent blue eyes.
“Mr. Vincent, care to share what was going through your mind just now?”
Ethan blinked. “I was just sharing my grand ambitions, that’s all.”
Dumbledore smiled. “Well, I’d be delighted to hear more about them later. For now, let’s focus on sorting you based on your personal qualities.”
“After all, I can’t very well send a first-year straight to the Dementors, can I?”
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
Was that a threat?
Who would’ve thought this white-bearded, twinkly-eyed old man would play the intimidation card…
But Ethan didn’t leap up to slap the headmaster and declare himself the true master of Hogwarts.
Nor did he indulge in some dramatic 'Life changes, fortunes shift.someone who is poor or weak today may rise and become strong in the future. never look down on someone just because they are currently struggling.' nonsense.
He simply said, “Oh,” and plopped the hat back on his head.
…Ethan hadn’t meant for this to happen.
How was he supposed to know the stupid hat was so lacking in ambition?
He’d just gotten a bit fired up, and the hat had screeched like a damsel in distress from some action flick.
Ethan sighed.
Clearly, you couldn’t expect a hat to have any grand aspirations, could you?
【Actually, child, I may be just a hat, but I’m the hat left behind by the four founders. I’m a crystallization of their thoughts.】
The Sorting Hat’s voice echoed in his mind.
【Alright, fine. By my reckoning, you should go straight to Azkaban and skip the middle steps—but since the headmaster insists, let’s take another look at what’s in that head of yours.】
Ethan cleared his throat and said primly, “I think I’d be a good fit for Hufflepuff.”
【Hmm… I must say, you’re clever and awfully ambitious. What about Slytherin?】
“I want to go to Hufflepuff,” Ethan insisted.
【Perhaps in Gryffindor, you’d find like-minded friends to keep you on the right path.】
“Didn’t you hear me? I said Huf-fle-puff.”
【But your thirst for knowledge and passion for art outweigh everything else. I know exactly where you belong—Ravenclaw!】
The last word boomed through the Great Hall, reverberating off the walls.
Ethan: “…”
This blasted hat.
He yanked it off, glaring at the long table draped in blue.
After a moment of silence, a smattering of hesitant applause broke out from the Ravenclaw table.
Clearly, they weren’t sure whether welcoming a “near-Azkaban” student was something to celebrate.
“Don’t worry,” Ethan said with a smile, raising his voice. “I’ll lead Ravenclaw to glory.”
If he recalled correctly, the original books never once mentioned Ravenclaw winning the House Cup.
“…”
The applause grew even fainter.
Among the students, Ron whispered to someone nearby, “I knew he’d end up in Ravenclaw! His charm work is brilliant!”
At the Gryffindor table, Harry felt a pang of mixed emotions upon hearing Ethan hadn’t been sorted into his house.
Was it regret? Relief? He couldn’t tell.
“Very spirited,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “I hope you find the knowledge you seek in Ravenclaw.”
Ethan gave a small nod, stepped down from the platform, and headed toward the Ravenclaw table.
Oddly enough, as he approached, he felt a sense of belonging.
It was as if he was meant to be here, in this bastion of knowledge and intellect.
As he took his seat, his gaze drifted to the staff table.
His eyes locked with Professor Snape’s.
Snape was listening to Professor Quirrell beside him, but when he noticed Ethan, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and a venomous smirk curled his lips.
…Like a malicious mother-in-law who’d finally caught her daughter-in-law slipping.
Great, Ethan thought. Probably got a tip-off from Malfoy and is plotting how to make my life miserable.
Though Snape hadn’t dragged him to his office for an interrogation yet, Ethan was sure the professor was biding his time for something big.
A critical strike at just the right moment.
“Looks like after two months, the ‘Lily effect’ is wearing off…” Ethan muttered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Time to reinforce it.”
Nearby, another Ravenclaw first-year, Michael Corner, caught sight of Ethan’s smile and shivered.
He promptly abandoned any thought of saying hello.
Ethan was terrifying!
As for Quirrell, Ethan spared him only a fleeting glance.
That was Harry’s problem to deal with. As long as Quirrell stayed out of his way, Ethan had no reason to interfere.
None of his business.
He looked down, his fingers tracing the gilded patterns on his plate.
The designs hid traces of magic—cleaning charms, mentioned in their textbooks, that ensured the plates sparkled after every meal.
Finally, as the last student was sorted into Slytherin, Dumbledore rose to address the hall.
His arms spread wide, the half-moon spectacles glinting with a vitality that belied his age.
This was Albus Dumbledore, the greatest white wizard of the century.
“Welcome, welcome to Hogwarts,” he began. “Every time I see your vibrant, eager faces, I feel young again.”
He gave a playful wink.
“Before we begin the feast, I have just a few words—”
“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
“Thank you.”
The brief speech was met with enthusiastic applause from the students.
Then, with a flourish, the tables were suddenly laden with a feast!
Sizzling roast chicken legs, beef, pork chops, lamb cutlets, plump pink sausages, and every kind of potato imaginable—fries piled high like mountains.
Creamy stews, tomato-braised eggs, buttery peas, mushroom soup, pumpkin juice, and platters overflowing with rich gravies and tangy sauces.
There were even glistening mint humbugs, sparkling like jewels, no doubt requested by some nostalgic upperclassman.
It was heavenly.
Ethan quickly lost himself in the sea of food.
If there was one thing about Hogwarts—besides the knowledge—it was that they fed you until you couldn’t eat another bite.
Sitting up straight, chewing with his mouth closed, Ethan maintained a refined posture, but his hands never stopped moving, ferrying food to his plate.
To onlookers, it was as if the food in front of him vanished by magic.
A faint sigh, cold as frost, drifted from above.
Ethan looked up to see a shimmering blue figure gliding away.
The Grey Lady, Ravenclaw’s ghost.
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