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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 7: A Hero Can Endure Grievances, But You Cannot Insult My Art!
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 06:13:01 +0000 UTCSpinner’s End.
【Your artwork is beginning to gain some influence!】
【Soul Fusion Degree Increased!】
【26% → 27%】
As the system’s announcement echoed, Ethan felt a warm current pour from his head, coursing through his limbs and nourishing his entire body.
“My soul fusion degree has gone up again!” Ethan exclaimed with delight, staring at his palms as if he could see the magic sparking within them.
On the table lay the latest issues of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet.
“Who says Rita Skeeter’s a bad journalist? She’s absolutely brilliant!” Ethan grinned, particularly fond of the article she’d written about him, titled “Justice vs. Evil,” which even roped in the famous Harry Potter. The wording was spot-on: phrases like “a hidden dark aura,” “potentially affecting one’s mental state,” and “all parties should remain vigilant” made Ethan blush with pride.
“She clearly appreciates my art,” he thought, bashful yet proud, a shy smile creeping onto his face.
To express his gratitude for the article, Ethan had painted a small piece in the same style and sent it to Rita via Luna’s owl, eagerly awaiting her reply. To his surprise, he learned from the newspaper that Rita had suddenly fallen ill, bedridden, and was taking a week off.
What a pity!
At that moment, as Ethan mulled over the system’s message about his “soul fusion degree increasing,” a spark of inspiration struck him. “Could it be that the soul fusion degree is tied to my fame in this world?” he wondered. “Or, more precisely, my artistic fame?”
It made sense. The last time his soul fusion degree had increased was when Snape admired his portrait of Lily, boosting it by 1%—the same increment as this time.
“The more important the person in this world, the greater the boost,” Ethan mused. “Looks like I need to get closer to the main characters from the books and give them a taste of this failed art student’s brilliance.”
His gaze drifted to a newspaper clipping on the wall, featuring a photograph of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, its castle standing resolute on a cliff under a rainy sky, a bolt of lightning slashing through the night.
The Chosen One and Hogwarts…
He licked his lips, a mischievous “plan’s-afoot” grin spreading across his face. “I can’t wait.”
Over the past few weeks, Ethan’s studies had paid off. He was on the verge of completing his first artwork combining a spell with his painting—a true masterpiece.
Meanwhile, at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, Harry Potter lay on a bed surrounded by broken toys, sneezing out of nowhere.
“Ugh, who’s thinking about me?” Harry muttered groggily, rolling over. Unaware of the latest Daily Prophet news, he soon drifted back into sleep, dreaming of racing through Hogwarts on a flying motorbike, wand in hand.
The magical world awaited him.
September 1st, King’s Cross Station, London.
The clock in the station hall read half-past ten.
Ethan, lugging a pile of bags and trunks, stood between Platforms 9 and 10. If he were catching a plane, he’d have arrived hours earlier. His luggage, stacked heavily on the trolley, drew concerned glances from passing women offering help, but Ethan politely declined. Not out of a desire to prove himself, but because his bags were charmed with a Levitation Spell.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” Ethan whispered, the spell etched deeply in his memory from the books. As a first-year Charms lesson, it was simple enough, and through self-study, Ethan had mastered it along with several other basic spells from Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
“Not too hard,” he thought, hand in his pocket, fingers brushing his wand. He’d even managed to infuse one of those spells into a painting, creating his first “Blue Precious” card—a step above “White Rare.”
Taking a deep breath, Ethan faced the brick barrier, then charged forward.
Whoosh!
A fleeting darkness enveloped him, accompanied by a chilling whistle in his ears. Then, sunlight and noise flooded in like a tidal wave.
Hiss!
The train released a puff of steam, the scent of coal smoke mingling with pumpkin pasties. Ethan opened his eyes to a cast-iron sign hanging above the platform arch: Platform 9¾.
Owls fluttered overhead, and a scarlet steam train gleamed in the sunlight. Since Ethan had arrived early, the platform was still relatively quiet. Children his age darted past, laughing, while older students swapped summer stories and parents issued endless reminders.
A wave of indescribable emotion surged within Ethan. At that moment, he truly felt he’d stepped into the magical world.
Glancing back, he saw faint magical ripples connecting to the Muggle world behind him.
“Home is behind, the world lies ahead!”
As Ethan stood, awestruck, a drawling voice sounded from behind. “Oh, you’re the one who did those illustrations in The Quibbler, aren’t you?”
Turning, Ethan spotted a head of platinum-blond hair and a smug face—Draco Malfoy. Another key character from the books. Perhaps a chance to boost his soul fusion degree?
A smile spread across Ethan’s face. “That’s me, Ethan Vincent. Didn’t realize I was already so famous. I’m almost embarrassed!”
Ethan playfully covered his mouth, feigning shyness.
Draco stared, speechless. Who’s this narcissist out-narcissizing me?
“Heh, don’t flatter yourself,” Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I only know you because your arrest warrant was plastered all over the Ministry for ages. My father has connections there, so I hear things.”
He puffed out his chest, looking down his nose at Ethan. “If Dumbledore hadn’t vouched for you, you’d be locked up by now. Honestly, I saw your paintings. They’re nothing special. Pretty ordinary, if you ask me.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
You can insult my character, but you cannot insult my art.
His smile grew warmer, almost too polite. “You’ve got something in your nose.”
What?!
Draco’s haughty demeanor crumbled as he ducked his head, covering his nose. His pale face flushed red. Was Ethan lying, or did he actually have… something embarrassing up there? Digging for it in public was out of the question for a refined Malfoy.
Fuming, Draco snapped, “You filthy Mud—”
Ethan cut him off, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Draco froze, staring at Ethan’s outstretched hand as if it were a troll’s. A trap? But after scrutinizing it—no paint stains, no tricks—he relaxed. Of course, he’s just awestruck by the Malfoy name. How else would he know who I am? I didn’t introduce myself.
Draco’s confidence returned. His father, Lucius, had mentioned this “shady artist” who could weave magic into his paintings. “A kid worth getting to know,” Lucius had said.
“Hmph, you know who’s worth knowing,” Draco sneered, still covering his nose with one hand as he shook Ethan’s with the other.
The moment their hands touched, a sharp sting pricked Draco’s palm, followed by an itchy, ant-like sensation. Frowning, he glanced up, meeting Ethan’s cobalt-blue eyes.
Ethan Vincent—the boy whose eerie artwork had rocked The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet, landing him on the Ministry’s watchlist twice—was staring at him with a chilling, amused smile, like a healer eyeing a lab rat on the operating table.
