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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 1: The Failed Art Student’s New Career
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 06:07:14 +0000 UTC1991, Spinner’s End.
Ethan had just wrapped up a long day of street-side sketching.
Clutching a stack of yellowed, ragged-edged papers to his chest and gripping a few charcoal pencils of various thicknesses in his smudged little hands, he trudged through the door.
With a solid thud, Ethan kicked the door shut behind him. The rusted hinges groaned under the impact.
He carefully placed his precious art supplies on the table, then collapsed onto the grease-stained sofa with a long exhale.
His eyes scanned the narrow, dingy room.
Cracked and peeling gray walls. A cabinet stuffed with dented tin cans. A chair missing one leg. In the corner, shards of glass still glittered faintly in the fading light of dusk—remnants of a few empty beer bottles. Ethan had already sold the bottles for whatever scraps he could get.
His cobalt-blue eyes lingered on a single drawing hanging on the wall—a charcoal portrait of a black-haired young man.
The likeness was strikingly lifelike, the dark eyes filled with a simmering, cynical fire, as if the figure were about to erupt into an angry roar at any moment.
That was Ethan—how he’d looked in his previous life.
Back then, he was a twice-rejected art school candidate.
They’d actually said his work didn’t look like it was made by a human!
Ethan had been indignant.
He’d followed the test instructions and drawn a proper sketch—so well, in fact, that the examinee beside him had started crying out of pure emotion!
His last memory from that life was a roaring Dayun-brand truck barreling toward him after his second rejection.
Then came the crossing over.
He'd woken up as an eleven-year-old boy living in a slum.
The kid’s birth mother had long since run off with someone new, and his father—an alcoholic—was the type to smash things and hit people when drunk.
Though lately, it had been over a month since the man had come home.
Probably fertilizing some field by now.
Good riddance.
Grrrgle~
His stomach growled with hunger.
Ethan fished a soggy sandwich from his pocket—paid for with today’s sketch commissions.
Biting into the odd-tasting mess, he focused his thoughts. A faint blue screen blinked to life in front of him:
[Ethan Vincent (Age 11)]
[Soul Integration: 25% (You have not yet fully merged with this world. As a result, your magic will remain unstable.)]
[Special Skill – Painting: Vivid Imagination Lv1]
[Your artwork may not yet shake the world, but it certainly draws attention.]
[Gallery: None]
Magic!
Ethan immediately latched onto that word.
He’d read the Harry Potter series before.
He wasn’t an expert, but he knew the major plotlines and characters.
And Spinner’s End—that was a real place in the books. The very street where Professor Snape lived.
If the system said he had magic… then maybe—just maybe—he could get into Hogwarts.
And if he did, wouldn’t he be in the same year as the Chosen One?
His mind raced. Day and night, he dreamed of that owl that had gotten lost in the previous life.
But a month of hardship and harsh reality had shaved off Ethan’s edges. He’d gone from arrogant and sharp to guarded and shrewd.
He couldn’t rot in Spinner’s End forever, scraping by on charcoal portraits and meager coins.
No. He was going to rise—use his art to shake this decaying world awake!
Ethan’s eyes burned with the reckless fire of a boy with something to prove.
But then—
Crunch.
He bit into the sandwich again.
Waterlogged bread and rotting lettuce turned to mush in his mouth, gag-inducing and foul.
“…I should probably focus on making some money first.”
Poof!
The little fire was snuffed out by cold reality.
Right then—
Thump, thump!
A sudden knock on the door.
Ethan jumped up from the sofa, eyes narrowing.
It was already dark. Not a great time for visitors.
Could it be one of those local thugs…?
He stepped back slowly, careful not to make a sound, and reached under the sofa for a kitchen knife.
Malnourished and battered, this body was fragile and thin.
He carried all his money with him. If things went south, Ethan was ready to bolt out the window.
But then—
“I know you’re in there, Ethan Vincent. And don’t bother trying to escape like some idiotic troll through the window.”
A low, drawn-out voice came from the other side. It reminded Ethan of a damp snake slithering across the floor.
…Troll?
His body froze, eyes widening.
That… wasn’t a normal thing to say.
One figure flashed through his mind.
Could it be… him?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump!
Ethan could hear his heart pounding wildly.
Swallowing hard, he backed away from the window, stepped forward, and opened the door.
Standing there was a man in black robes, with greasy curls and a hooked nose.
He looked like a giant black bat.
And he was peering down at Ethan with undisguised irritation and disdain.
It was none other than Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!
Ethan nearly blurted out his name on the spot.
But he caught himself just in time, masked his expression with wary suspicion, and asked,
“Who are you?”
Snape snorted through his nose, voice dripping with sarcasm:
“So the little prodigy painter of Spinner’s End demands to know identities before sketching strangers, does he…”
“Severus Snape.”
“Now, are you going to let me in?”
“…It’s dark now, sir. I can’t see well. If you’re here for a portrait, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until morning…”
Before Ethan could finish, Snape swept past him in a swirl of robes.
Then—
Flick!
The room lit up in an instant.
A bulb that had long been dead now shone bright white.
Snape plopped himself down on the only usable piece of furniture—the sofa—and tilted his chin toward Ethan impatiently, a malicious curl tugging at his lips:
“Draw.”
“…”
Ethan paused, then silently retrieved his art supplies and sat on the three-legged stool.
He asked politely,
“What would you like a portrait of, sir?”
“Whatever. A portrait will do. Isn’t that what you’re best at?”
Snape’s lips twitched, voice laced with inexplicable mockery.
A portrait, huh…
He was good at those.
But a regular portrait wouldn’t impress a professor.
Ethan tapped his charcoal pencil against the paper, mind spinning.
Suddenly, a flash of red hair and green eyes appeared in his mind.
Got it.
He never said it had to be his portrait, right?
Ethan’s eyes lit up with a decision, inspiration flooding in like a tidal wave.
He raised his pencil and began sketching furiously onto the rough paper.
Gradually—
The world outside faded away.
Every ounce of Ethan’s focus zeroed in on the drawing. His body leaned forward, nearly melding with the paper. He heard nothing else.
Jaw clenched, sweat dripped from his brow.
He had only a vague idea of the person’s appearance.
But now, it was as if she stood right before him.
His pencil moved steadily, line by line bringing that figure to life in exquisite detail.
This time… this time, I can draw something better than ever before.
He knew it.
Scratch, scratch.
The only sound in the room was charcoal on paper.
Snape, meanwhile, curled his lip as he sensed the boy’s magical energy pulsing faintly.
This whole trip had been a hassle.
A clueless little wizard, selling magical artwork to Muggles in Spinner’s End.
Every sketch infused with enough magic to capture a viewer’s attention, drawing them in so deeply they’d forget to eat or sleep.
No wonder the streets had been so empty on his way in.
The boy’s enchanted drawings had practically mesmerized the entire neighborhood.
He was one step away from violating laws on Dark magic—and he’d already broken the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
Just thinking about the Ministry’s endless arguments over the matter gave Snape a headache.
If Dumbledore hadn’t intervened, this brat would be sitting in court right now.
What infuriated Snape even more?
That just because they’d both come from Spinner’s End, he had been sent to fetch the boy.
“Severus, what a curious little coincidence this is, hmm? Hehehe…”
Just remembering Dumbledore’s smug little smile made a vein twitch in Snape’s temple.
He’d made up his mind.
The moment the portrait was done, he would tear into it with merciless critique.
He’d even rehearsed the insults in his head. His mouth curled in anticipation, sharp enough to send any Gryffindor running.
This place only darkened his mood.
The broken furniture. The damp rot. The lingering stench of alcohol…
It all dragged him back to memories he’d long tried to forget.
And a silhouette that still made his heart ache.
“Sir, it’s done.”
The boy’s voice snapped Snape back to the present.
He grunted and snatched the paper from Ethan’s hands, venomous remarks poised on his tongue as he glanced at the portrait.
Then froze.
Completely.
As if struck by a Petrificus Totalus, Snape’s entire body went rigid.
His eyes widened in shock, locked onto the face staring back from the page.
It was someone who should never have appeared in a portrait—
The most closely guarded secret in the depths of his soul—
Lily Evans.
