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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 22: Are you really crying?
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 12:02:53 +0000 UTCDraco Malfoy’s triumphant smirk froze on his pale face.
His gray eyes widened in disbelief at the words that had just pierced the air, and he stammered instinctively, “Excuse me, Professor, I must have misheard—”
“You heard correctly, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Snape’s voice cut through the room like a shard of ice, shattering any lingering hope Draco might have clung to.
In front of the gathered students, Snape’s tone was unrelenting. “Must I repeat myself? Due to your deplorable, Troll-like behavior, Slytherin will lose ten points!”
“Insulting your classmates—is this the decorum your father instilled in you? What have you learned under my tutelage? Perhaps I should inform Lucius of your recent… disappointing conduct.”
The words landed like a curse.
A heavy silence blanketed the office, both within and beyond its stone walls.
Draco stood rooted to the spot, utterly stunned.
His lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, exchanged bewildered glances, their usual bravado replaced by uncertainty. They barely dared to breathe, as if invisible question marks hovered above their heads.
They had anticipated the outcome—Professor Snape delivering a harsh reprimand to a student. But they hadn’t foreseen this twist: the one on the receiving end wasn’t Ethan Vincent, but their own leader, Draco Malfoy.
Draco’s head spun. The air in the dimly lit dungeon office grew thick and oppressive, choking his lungs. Never in his life had anyone dared to berate him so openly—and in front of his peers, no less.
His pale cheeks flushed with humiliation. If only he could rewind time a few minutes and stop himself from dragging his cronies along to witness this debacle.
Ethan, you scheming snake—you’ve played me!
“But—but—” Crabbe stammered, his voice trembling. “Malfoy was the one insulted, wasn’t he? Why are you defending that Mudblood—”
Oh, brilliant move, Ethan thought, casting an amused glance at the lumbering oaf. Crabbe’s slip of the tongue was almost admirable in its stupidity.
The word “Mudblood” hung in the air like a forbidden spell. Ethan’s cobalt blue eyes flicked toward Snape, already anticipating the fallout.
As expected, Snape’s face darkened, his expression as grim as a storm-battered cauldron.
Snap.
The fireplace in the corner sputtered and died, either extinguished by Snape’s barely contained fury or snuffed out by the raw magic radiating from him.
“Never—ever—utter that word in my presence!” Snape’s voice was low but thunderous, reverberating through the room like a shockwave.
A gust of unseen wind swept through the office.
Crabbe froze, petrified, while the other Slytherins paled, their lips sealed in fear. They had never seen their Head of House so enraged.
“Slytherin, ten more points deducted for your idiocy!” Snape spat. “Malfoy, Crabbe—detention, starting tomorrow night, for two weeks!”
“Now, get out!”
With a roar that seemed to shake the very walls, Snape banished Draco and his entourage from the office, as if they were nothing more than debris swept away by a hurricane.
Bang!
The heavy door slammed shut behind them.
Ethan turned slowly, his gaze settling on Draco, who stood with his head bowed, fists clenched tightly at his sides, silent as a statue.
Bending down, Ethan leaned in close, his piercing cobalt eyes locking onto Draco’s. “Are you… crying?” he whispered, his voice laced with mock concern.
Draco shoved him back, his lips trembling and his eyes unmistakably rimmed with red. He didn’t understand—couldn’t comprehend—how this had happened. For the first time in his life, he’d been publicly humiliated, not once but twice over, in a situation he’d been certain he would dominate.
And yet, here he was, slapped with a two-week detention at the start of the term. He could already imagine the scathing letter his father would send.
Crabbe, oblivious as ever, chuckled nervously. “It’s alright, Malfoy! You’ve still got me!”
Draco’s glare could have melted stone. Go jump in the Black Lake.
He looked up at Ethan, who wore an infuriatingly sympathetic expression, those curved cobalt eyes glinting with what Draco was sure was mockery—the final twist of the knife.
Ethan Vincent. How had this Mudblood managed it?
Was it possible… Ethan had been playing the fool all along, luring Draco into a trap? On the surface, he was just a parentless nobody, but could he have connections stronger than Draco’s own? Had he somehow won Snape’s favor?
The more Draco thought about it, the more it made sense. No wonder Ethan had the gall to challenge the noble House of Malfoy—he had a powerful ally in his corner.
Draco bit his lip, his wariness deepening. After a long pause, he rasped, “So that’s your game, Vincent. I didn’t realize you were hiding so much.”
Ethan blinked. Hiding what? Had Draco somehow sniffed out his connection to Lily? That kid knew more than he let on—probably fed insider gossip by his father.
With a sly nod, Ethan played along. “You’re sharper than I thought. You figured it out.”
Draco’s eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction. I knew it. Ethan had powerful backing.
“We’ll see about this,” Draco muttered through gritted teeth, shooting Ethan a final, venomous glare before turning on his heel and stalking off.
Crabbe and Goyle scurried after him like loyal hounds.
The remaining Slytherins exchanged glances, one of them letting out a low chuckle. “Not bad, kid,” he said, eyeing Ethan with newfound interest. “Taking down the great Malfoy like that? Spill it—how’d you do it?”
Their looks suggested they were sizing him up, perhaps even considering him a potential ally. After all, Ethan was a Ravenclaw. His status might be low—possibly even a Mudblood—but a small gesture, a favor, could go a long way.
Ethan’s lips curled into a slow, chilling smile. The air seemed to grow colder, the flickering candlelight casting half his face into shadow. His stark white teeth gleamed, and his cobalt eyes glinted with a predatory intensity, like a creature lurking in the depths of a dark abyss.
“Do you really want to know?” he asked, his voice soft but laced with menace.
Two seconds later—
“Ahhh!”
The Slytherins bolted down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in a frantic retreat.
Ethan stood alone, watching their fleeing figures with an innocent tilt of his head. What did I do? he thought. I just wanted to talk about the fine art of painting.
Humming a cheerful tune, he strolled toward the Ravenclaw common room, his mind buzzing with inspiration from the night’s events. He couldn’t wait to jot it all down.
Tomorrow, he’d head to the Owlery to send a letter and order a fresh batch of painting supplies. He was already itching to rework his masterpiece, Open the Door with One Glance.
Luna, oh Luna, he thought wistfully. What a shame you’re not at Hogwarts this year. You’re missing out on all the fun.
My Dearest Friend Ethan,
I’ve read your letter at least five times, and each time, I find myself wishing I could apparate to Hogwarts and join you in your adventures.
Sadly, I’m not old enough yet, and besides, if I weren’t here, the dirigible plums at our doorstep would float off again. Father still hasn’t quite mastered how to tend them properly.
Your tales of helping so many people—especially sparking those cherished childhood memories for a certain professor—only confirm what I knew when we first met. You’re a truly remarkable young wizard! Your thoughts on goblins are nothing short of brilliant.
You mentioned struggling to transform your wand into the perfect paintbrush. Have you considered bathing it in moonlight? Moonlight has a way of revealing the heart’s deepest desires, you know.
I’ve enclosed the manuscript for the next issue of The Quibbler. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Yours sincerely,
Luna
P.S. If you’re free this Christmas, would you like to visit our home? Father and I would be thrilled to have you. We could share a feast of roasted Dirigible Plum fish. I’m eagerly awaiting your reply.
