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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 310
🕑 Added 2025-12-16 20:38:48 +0000 UTCChapter 310: Illusions in the Mirror World! Harry: Why Does Mr Lamp Look Strangely Familiar?
Thud.
The world spun violently, and Harry and Cedric hit the ground hard. The Triwizard Cup flew from their hands, bounced twice, and rolled to a stop in the grass a short distance away.
“Where are we…?” Harry fumbled for his glasses, shoved them back on, and stared around in disbelief. “The Cup is a Portkey? Is this another of Ethan’s ‘surprises’?”
Calling it a surprise felt generous. This was a scare.
A bitter, cold wind swept through the air. Tombstones stood in dense rows, crooked and looming. Crows perched on dead branches, cawing as they flapped off into the gloom. The sky was dim, heavy clouds pressing down like a lid, and the whole place looked like a landscape painted at the end of the world, empty and desolate.
“Creepy,” Harry muttered, swallowing. “Fits Ethan’s taste, I suppose.”
He tightened his grip on his wand and cast, “Lumos.”
Soft white light bloomed, pushing back the fog and shadow and throwing the graveyard into clarity.
Harry froze.
“Tom Riddle’s grave…” Cedric was propped against the headstone they had fallen beside, reading with interest. “Died in 1943… ‘A soul murdered and denied rest’?”
“C-Cedric …”
“Hey, Harry!” Cedric turned, oddly excited. “This bloke was murdered. No wonder there’s a scythe carved on the stone. Is this the puzzle stage next?”
“Get down, Cedric!”
Harry’s scream ripped out of him.
The last thing Cedric saw was a burst of blinding green light, and Harry lunging forward with everything he had, arm outstretched, trying to shove him away.
But he was too late.
Bang.
The green spell grazed the tips of Harry’s fingers and struck Cedric square in the chest.
Cedric’s body snapped backward as if he had been hit by a charging beast. He flew, slammed into the ground, and went limp, arms and legs slack. His eyes were wide and empty, filled with pure, stunned disbelief.
“No. No… Cedric… no!”
Harry’s mind went blank.
He scrambled forward on hands and knees, shaking Cedric’s shoulders again and again, desperate, frantic, refusing to understand.
But the warmth under his hands was fading fast.
And there was no heartbeat. Not even a flicker.
Avada Kedavra.
The name of the spell leapt into Harry’s mind, something he had learned in Defence Against the Dark Arts. One of the three Unforgivable Curses. It killed instantly, striking at the soul itself.
There had been no incantation.
But there was no mistaking the effect.
And Harry knew something else, too. That curse was not something an ordinary wizard could cast properly. In class, they had fired it together at Professor Moody, and at most, it had given the professor a nosebleed.
But now, staring at Cedric’s still face, Harry felt sick with certainty.
Whoever had done this could cast it for real.
Step. Step.
Footsteps pressed into the grass.
In the graveyard’s suffocating quiet, the sound was painfully clear, almost obscene. Slow. Unhurried. As if the person walking toward them had all the time in the world, as if they had not just taken a life.
Step.
A pure white mask slid out of the darkness.
It matched the vague shape Harry thought he had glimpsed the moment Lumos lit the fog.
At that instant, a thread of moonlight fell through the clouds and outlined the newcomer.
Tall. Lean. Elegant.
And dressed in a way no wizard dressed.
Even Gilderoy Lockhart, the so-called heartthrob of the wizarding world, had always worn loud, garish robes, purple and green and everything else that screamed for attention.
This man wore a perfectly tailored black suit. Crisp trouser legs, seams so sharp they looked drawn with ink. A thin gold chain ran from his breast pocket to a button, glinting faintly. A dark blue tie lay neat at his throat. A top hat sat on his head, and over it all, a cloak like a priest’s mantle. In his gloved hand, he held a gold-tipped cane, resting it soundlessly in the damp earth.
Without that plain, blank white mask, he could have walked straight out of a cathedral, the kind of priest people would queue day and night to confess to.
Harry knew better.
Under that merciful appearance was something mad and vicious.
Almost on Ethan’s level.
Harry’s voice shook. “You… you killed Cedric.”
“Long time no see, Mr Potter,” the masked man said as if he had not heard him.
He removed his top hat with gloved fingers and bowed with flawless grace. “Perhaps you remember my name. The one who will lead the world into a new era. Mr Lamp.”
“I have been waiting here for quite some time.”
“You killed Cedric!”
Grief and fury blew the fear out of Harry’s body like a bellows.
He sprang up, wand raised, and roared, “Reducto!”
A bolt of red light shot at the masked man like an arrow. It scraped the edge of a tombstone on the way and turned solid rock into drifting dust.
But then, snap.
A cold flash cut across the air like a blade of steel.
The spell was knocked aside violently, ricocheting into the ground and exploding in a shower of soil and shattered stone.
A twisted, horrifying silhouette rose behind Mr Lamp.
Black hair streamed in the air as if underwater. Thin, jointed arms wrapped around Mr Lamp from behind like a lover’s embrace, too many elbows, too long, too wrong. Claws gleamed like knives. From within the curtain of hair, a single blood-red eye stared at Harry, fixed and hungry, spilling a chill that crawled under the skin.
But Harry’s mind had already burned past fear.
He panted, launching spell after spell at the demon-like figure before him, red light flaring again and again among the graves.
Mr Lamp did not even raise his wand. He looked down at Harry, calm and detached, as if watching a child punch a stone wall.
Slowly, he said, “Is that all your professor taught you? How disappointing.”
Impatient again, Ethan clicked his tongue behind the mask.
Once anger took over, Harry became reckless, charging like a fool without thinking of consequences.
He had not even realised Cedric had not died at all.
It was only an illusion.
A bit like the Imperius Curse. If Harry slapped Cedric a few times, he would probably break through the Confundus effect and hear Cedric yelp in pain.
And this graveyard was not Little Hangleton, a thousand miles from Hogwarts.
They were still in the Triwizard maze.
They had simply used the Wayward Mirror hidden inside the Cup to enter the mirror world.
In the space within the mirror, the caster held the advantage.
Under the mask, Ethan’s mouth curved.
As if he would ever obediently follow Voldemort’s plan and set the fight on Voldemort’s home ground.
He almost wanted to see Voldemort’s face when the truth came out, shocked so hard he sat bolt upright.
But first, it was time to deal with this green, half-baked Saviour. Not deal with him, exactly. Teach him another lesson.
With a casual wave of Ethan’s hand, Harry was yanked into the air and thrown backward. He slammed into the stone carving on Tom Riddle’s tomb.
Ethan flicked his hand again.
Crack.
The tomb’s scythe-shaped carving snapped into place like a trap, clamping around Harry’s throat and pinning him there. Harry’s wand flew from his hand and skittered away into the grass.
“Let… let go of me!” Harry choked, thrashing. His legs kicked like a trapped grasshopper.
It did nothing.
Ethan’s voice was mild. “Lose your wand, lose your casting. Wizards really are inconvenient creatures.”
If the job were his, the first thing he would do as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor would be to train students in wandless magic.
Harry nearly spat blood.
One sentence, and he had just spat on centuries of Ollivanders.
That casual talent for ruining other people’s lives without even meaning to made Harry think, inexplicably, of someone he knew.
Could Ethan really be Mr Lamp?
That was impossible.
Harry ground out, “Just you wait. Ethan will notice something’s wrong soon. He’s the strongest wizard we know. When he gets here, you’re dead!”
Mr Lamp, Ethan himself, nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Go on. Say more.”
Harry: “…”
He was so furious his head spun and his chest ached.
This “Mr Lamp” was not talking like a human being. He felt like the same species as the monsters Ethan summoned.
Then another set of footsteps sounded.
Shff. Shff. Shff.
Heavier than Mr Lamp’s. Messier. Uneven.
When the figure stumbled into the moonlight, Harry held his breath.
A zombie?
Like the illustrations in their Defence textbook.
The man was corpse-pale, skin tinted a sickly blue-green. He staggered forward as if his legs barely remembered how to work. He cradled something wrapped like a bundle in his arms. On the exposed skin, swollen veins bulged in thick, branching lines like plant roots.
As he drew closer, Harry saw something even worse.
Clusters of brown mushrooms grew along the man’s neck. The darker spots on their caps formed shapes that almost looked like faces.
Harry felt cold dread and nausea twist together in his stomach.
Then a flash of recognition hit him.
Harry blurted, “You’re Crouch’s son… Barty Crouch Junior. A Death Eater.”
Once, because of his scar, Harry had gone to see Dumbledore. In the Headmaster’s office, through the Pensieve, he had watched the trial where Barty Crouch Junior was dragged in with the other Death Eaters and sentenced.
But that made no sense.
Barty Crouch Junior was supposed to have been sent to Azkaban years ago.
Rumour said he was dead.
So how could he be here?
Harry stared at the blank, stupid expression on the man’s face. Even hearing his shout did not seem to stir him.
The graveyard wind felt colder.
“Master…” Barty croaked, swaying beside Mr Lamp.
His face was crooked, eyes unfocused, mouth slack. The thin skin on his forehead showed those bulging, root-like veins.
Harry’s brow knotted in disgust. He could barely look.
And then Harry heard the most terrifying sentence yet.
“Harry, don’t be so rude,” Mr Lamp said mildly.
“Say hello to your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”
