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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 304
🕑 Added 2025-12-13 14:09:28 +0000 UTCChapter 304: Third-Tier Epic Painting! Rare Material “Ariana – A Piece of History”
"You…?!"
Mr Crouch’s hands clenched into fists.
The face that was usually so hard and expressionless flushed a furious red.
For a moment, the air in the office went rigid.
Ethan glanced at Minister Scrimgeour, who had taken such a hard line, and a touch of approval flickered in his eyes.
At least someone was making the right call.
He was definitely an improvement on that fool Fudge.
However, just as Mr Crouch had said, if the Tournament could simply be stopped, then in the original story, they would never have been forced to go on with it even after they knew Harry was being lured into a trap.
All the more so now, when Ethan’s Crucible of Souls ritual required Voldemort’s "cooperation."
He looked from one man to the other and cheerfully offered, "Why do you not just duel for it?"
"Whoever survives gets to decide whether the Goblet stays."
"I can provide all kinds of arenas."
"Pure Hell, Nine Hells, Underworld, Evil Octopus. Buy now, and you even get one‑touch funeral services thrown in."
"Tempted?"
He looked genuinely eager to roll out the "one‑touch funeral."
"…"
"…"
"I was being hasty," Scrimgeour said stiffly.
"Not at all. I was the one who failed to think things through," Crouch answered, face solemn and suddenly full of reasonableness.
Scrimgeour turned to Dumbledore and Ethan. "Discuss the Tournament between you."
"I trust you will make the right choice."
He gave them a curt nod, set his domed hat more firmly on his head, and strode out.
Mr Crouch let out a long breath, muttered something under it, and nodded as well, preparing to follow.
At the door, he hesitated, pausing beside Ethan as if he wanted to speak.
Urgency and worry flashed in his eyes.
His mouth opened.
But in the end he said nothing, only turned away and left the office.
Silence fell at once.
Only Ethan, Dumbledore, and Professor Snape remained.
"Our current Minister is an impatient man," Dumbledore remarked at last, chuckling.
He plucked a pink, round sweet from his dish and popped it into his mouth, crunching down.
Ethan could have sworn he saw the sweet twitch in protest a moment before it vanished between his teeth.
Snape’s expression had twisted as if he had just watched a troll dance the hula.
The Headmaster’s office went quiet again.
"Cheep."
Fawkes called softly from his perch.
The phoenix fluffed his flame‑bright orange feathers and did his best to shuffle as far back on the stand as he could.
As far as possible from the concentrated evil that was Ethan.
Only after Dumbledore swallowed what was probably a Soft‑Centred Strawberry Beetle Pile did he speak.
"Ethan, our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has not been seen at all this morning. Would you happen to know where he has gone?"
Behind the half‑moon spectacles, his gaze fixed on Ethan’s eyes.
As always, there was nothing to be read in that deep, ocean‑coloured blue.
Snape frowned. "I advise you to answer truthfully, Mr Vincent."
"And I imagine you know something about the incident with the reporter as well."
He stopped.
Even now, it struck him as remarkable that he was still managing to speak to Ethan in a tone that could almost be called calm.
He had been trained into it.
He ground his back teeth.
The tension stretched.
At last, Ethan said, "I did not expect you to care this much about my great work."
"It is very moving."
His eyes warmed with obvious approval as he looked at the pair of them.
Dumbledore and Snape: "…"
No, it was not.
"Since you ask so sincerely," Ethan went on, "I have no reason to hide it."
"Our previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was actually Mr Barty Crouch Junior in disguise."
Both men jolted.
Their pupils shrank.
Barty Crouch Junior.
The Death Eater who, by all rights, should have died in Azkaban years ago.
Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a grave look.
"So it was a Death Eater who attacked Rita Skeeter and then fled," Dumbledore said hoarsely, shaking his head. "For him to play the role so well right under my nose… that was my own negligence."
He straightened, face serious. "Thank you for the information, Mr Vincent. I will inform the Ministry at once."
"And Voldemort," Ethan continued, "plans to use Harry to conduct a resurrection ritual during the third task."
Dumbledore and Snape: "???"
Dumbledore snapped upright.
He stared at Ethan, floored.
It felt like sitting at a card table, expecting a modest flush from the other side, only for his opponent to pull a wand out of their sleeve, slam it on the felt, and shout that the age of gentlemen’s games was over.
Even the portraits of the former Headmasters on the walls sat bolt upright, eyes wide.
"Most tiresome Headmaster in history," Phineas Black folded his arms and drawled, "The most 'peaceful' age indeed."
A Dark Lord rising again, Death Eaters strutting around the school.
And now a would‑be god standing openly in the Headmaster’s office.
Even the air at Hogwarts was compromised.
"Voldemort is coming back— how do you know that?" Snape blurted.
His pupils trembled.
He stared at Ethan’s smiling face and felt, more than ever, how bottomless this boy was.
He could not even begin to guess how Ethan had obtained such tightly held information.
It was as if he had slipped right into the enemy ranks and—
He broke off.
He had remembered Ethan’s suspected "other identity."
He sank into silence.
Dumbledore let out a long breath.
He raised his wand to his temple, drew out a strand of silvery thought, and dropped it into the gently swirling Pensieve.
It looked to be one of the thickest he had.
"Perhaps," he said, "Scrimgeour is right. The Triwizard Tournament must be cancelled."
"But the magical contract is troublesome."
Like fate itself.
It demanded the set path be followed, grinding down every life marked to be sacrificed beneath its wheels.
Faces drifted through Dumbledore’s mind, those who had fallen over the long course of his life.
Members of the Order of the Phoenix, one after another, slipping away.
At the end, his memory fixed on the image of a young girl.
His heart clenched with fresh pain.
Ethan’s smile sharpened.
"What I like best," he said softly, "is breaking rules."
"The Tournament should go on. Not just go on, but be more spectacular than ever."
And then he would bend fate to a new shape.
Let blinding light, not Voldemort’s shadow, fall across the world.
Dumbledore’s brows rose.
Then he laughed.
"Very well, Ethan. We will do it your way. I will smooth things as much as I can."
"Any books in the Restricted Section, any materials you need, I will do my best to provide."
Snape’s eye twitched.
"I think it is unlikely that the Ministry will continue to indulge our highly innovative Mr Vincent," he drawled. "Scrimgeour will not agree."
"There is no need to worry about that, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly.
"I believe our new Minister will still give me some leeway."
He winked at Ethan.
"And in any case, it is Mr Vincent who is asking."
Ethan’s eyes lit.
He bowed gracefully. "Thank you for your support, Headmaster."
"I promise you will witness the sunrise."
With Dumbledore’s help, all he had to do was focus on his art.
Materials would be easier to secure, and time and efficiency would improve.
He met the old wizard’s kindly smile and, after a moment’s thought, added, "In the third task, you will be reunited with your family."
He had already returned to the Hidden Place in his dreams and met Ariana again.
This time she had led him through that searing, tangled past.
That life ended by a stray spell in the chaos.
He had obtained the precious [Ariana – A Piece of History].
And the extraordinary item [Shattered Heart].
[The heart offered up by its owner, shattered beyond repair yet still gleaming like a gemstone.]
[Key to painting a third‑tier violet epic.]
The words hit harder than "Voldemort will be resurrected."
Dumbledore’s eyes flew wide.
The calm lines of his face broke under the force of his shock.
"Ariana…"
He all but choked on the name.
Even Snape stood frozen, stunned.
Hope flared behind his eyes.
If Dumbledore’s family could come back, then Lily could not be far behind.
"The dead are still dead," Ethan said quietly. "They will never return to the world whole."
"Please do not expect too much."
"On that note, I will take my leave."
He snapped his fingers.
A top hat appeared in his hand.
He bowed like a stage magician and stepped into a doorway of darkness, vanishing from the office and leaving two of the most powerful wizards in the world staring after him.
"Compared to that little monster," Snape muttered at last, letting out a breath of a laugh, "I feel like a Muggle."
He met Dumbledore’s eyes.
Their path was clear.
What Ethan wanted, Ethan would have.
They would be his inexhaustible store of resources.
"No threats, no intimidation," Dumbledore said softly. "Without spilling a drop of blood, he has bound us tight."
"Ethan Vincent. It is hard to say whether he is more admirable… or more frightening."
As he spoke, Ethan’s head popped back through the still‑dark doorway.
"Oh, right. Almost forgot about Mad‑Eye," he said.
"I will keep Barty Jr. You can have your real Mad‑Eye back and explain everything to him."
A wardrobe door sprang open in front of them.
Like a chest being tipped over, it dumped a big man out onto the floor.
Bang.
Mad‑Eye Moody landed on his back, still clutching something strange in his hand.
A carved wooden fire dragon, surprisingly delicate and detailed.
He scrambled up, brandishing the carving and roaring at Ethan, "Next time, warn me first. I nearly snapped this masterpiece in half."
Then he looked up.
And saw Dumbledore and (former) Death Eater Severus Snape staring at him in stunned silence.
"…"
The three men stared at one another.
Time seemed to stop.
The famously joyless, ever‑vigilant ex‑Auror Alastor Moody flushed.
He shoved the carving behind his back, cleared his throat, and bellowed, "That maniac had me locked up. I had nothing else to do."
Dumbledore and Snape said nothing.
Ethan, how many surprises are you hiding from us?
Let us just hope that, when all this ends, you are not the one wearing the Dark Lord’s crown.
In the end Dumbledore laughed under his breath.
He opened his arms. "Welcome back, Alastor. It is very good to see you in one piece."
"In one piece and looking fresher, if anything," he added with a twinkle.
"Just in time. You can still teach for half a term."
"Hmph. Those brats are in for it," Moody grumbled.
He tossed the half‑finished carving aside.
His eye gleamed.
"All right, then. Tell me what is going on, Dumbledore. What have I missed?"
This time, he would not be defeated, would not be taken.
Let the crawling remnants of Voldemort’s following see for themselves.
This was what the strongest Auror in Britain looked like.
