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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 292
🕑 Added 2025-12-06 20:05:59 +0000 UTCChapter 292: Christmas Feast! Ethan’s Stunning Entrance
"Wow."
Harry tugged at the lapels of his black tailcoat, feeling ridiculous, and stared around the transformed Great Hall in open amazement.
Everywhere glittered gold and silver. It was as if ten thousand candles had been lit at once, their light reflected in glass and silverware until everything shone.
Garlands of mistletoe and holly hung from the windows and walls, twined with bright streamers. Even with snow falling thick outside, the Hall felt lush and alive.
For some students, though, the most attractive thing was clearly the feast laid out on the long tables.
"Wow."
Ron’s jaw dropped.
He stared, wide‑eyed, at the plump roast turkeys, the mashed potatoes drowned in gravy, the towers of sausages, and pies stuffed with every filling a person could imagine, and several they probably could not.
And then there were the mountains and mountains of Butterbeer.
His throat bobbed loudly as he swallowed.
He plainly had not expected it to be that loud. His cheeks flushed and he darted panicked glances around.
"Oi! Our little Ronnie is hungry enough to eat a person!" the Weasley twins crowed, springing up behind him and clapping him on the back so hard he nearly bit his tongue.
"Get lost!" Ron snapped.
"Is that so?" one twin said. "Telling family to clear off on Christmas, is it? New dress robes go on and suddenly our Ronnie does not know us."
Ron went even redder. "Oh, shut up."
Thanks to Ethan’s cut of the Moonflower profits, Ron had a brand‑new set of dress robes this year. Plain black, but new.
When he learned how close he had come to wearing a set dragged out of a second‑hand bin in Knockturn Alley that had once belonged to someone’s grandmother, he had nearly dropped to his knees to thank Ethan.
Trying to change the subject, Harry asked, "Where are Ethan and Luna? The champions will be entering any minute."
The twins shrugged. "Who knows? They are not going to walk in like normal people, that is for sure."
They exchanged identical grins.
What would "Prank King Ethan" do this time to give everyone a fright?
Appear out of nowhere in the middle of them?
Drop from the ceiling like a meteor?
They could not wait to see.
The music started.
Even the professors seemed to have resigned themselves to Ethan’s absence. No one went to look for him. They simply hustled the champions backstage.
On the way, Professor McGonagall fussed with her wand over Harry’s hair, which did not appreciate the attention, and made his heart hammer.
"I think she is a bit on edge," one of the twins muttered, grudgingly handing over the firecrackers hidden in his pocket.
"Anyone who misplaces a walking time bomb right before an international event would be," Harry said.
"All right, children," said McGonagall briskly. "Time. On stage."
The words "time" and "on stage" sounded suspiciously like "last walk to the gallows."
The music swelled.
Harry took his partner’s arm.
Moving in a stiff, wrong‑footed rhythm, they stepped through the curtain into the blaze of light.
On the very first bar, he came down hard on Miss Patil’s toes.
"Sorry," he mumbled, pretending not to see the murderous glare she shot him.
From the floor below came the confused murmur of "Where’s Ethan?"
He locked up, muddling "underarm turns" with "wavy sways" and every other step in between.
And yet, unexpectedly, as if determined to drag things out with the dullest possible knife, the entire opening dance passed without a single sign of Ethan or Luna.
When the polite applause finally began, Harry, panting, caught sight of Sirius clapping like mad and could not help grinning back.
Then, as the violin drew out its last note—
A breath of cold wind blew through the Hall.
Every candle guttered out at once.
Darkness fell.
So it was time.
Harry jumped, then, to his own surprise, exhaled, and even laughed under his breath. "See? After a while, it just stops being scary."
It was only Ethan up to his usual tricks again, ready to spook them all.
He even found it a little exciting.
The next second, his smile froze.
His pupils shrank.
It felt like all the blood in his body rushed to his head at once.
From the blackness, a pure white mask drifted into view.
Mr Lamp.
Silence slammed down. You could have heard a pin drop.
Every lighthearted face in the room turned to stone.
Professor "Mad‑Eye" Moody shot to his feet. His magical eye bulged in astonishment as his hand hovered near his wand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
In the dead quiet, Mr Lamp’s figure slowly emerged.
Moonlight fell through the high windows like a stage spotlight, coming to rest perfectly on him.
It lit the limp, golden‑haired girl cradled in his arms.
Her pale, thin arm hung down, scarlet drops pattering to the floor.
She looked utterly lifeless.
Luna Lovegood.
The girl who usually bounded about like a startled deer now lay still as glass. A jagged hole gaped in her chest, and from it grew a single, perfect red rose.
"Love kills without spilling blood. It denies the dead their rest and the living their release," said a clear young voice, deliberately lowered.
Harry blinked.
Only then did he register that Mr Lamp’s body was unmistakably that of a boy.
The gloved hand rose and plucked the rose from Luna’s chest. A tender petal fell as he moved.
"When the last petal falls, the black egg will crack," he said. "And devour the one you hold most dear."
"That is the clue to the second task."
As he spoke, the candles flared back to life.
Light flooded the Hall, revealing the smiling face beneath the mask.
Ethan Vincent.
The "dead" Luna looped her arms around his neck, pushed herself upright, and waved happily at the stunned crowd.
For two long seconds, no one moved.
Then applause crashed over them like a storm.
The Weasley twins leapt onto the table, faces flushed red as tomatoes.
"Brilliant!"
"Bloody fantastic!"
"What a performance! Who would have thought Ethan would play the Dark Lord?"
"Perfect!"
The knot in Harry’s chest finally loosened. He let out a shaky laugh.
"Ethan’s sense of humour is still… unique."
But the show had made its point. The second task’s clue burned in his mind; he doubted he would ever forget it now.
Amid the cheering and clapping, Ethan’s smile did not falter.
In the depths of his cobalt eyes, though, a twist of shadow flickered that no one noticed.
While the Hall was still drunk on his entrance—
Bang.
A fist slammed down on the staff table.
Bartemius Crouch, the Ministry official overseeing the Goblet of Fire, shot to his feet, glaring at Ethan as if he could set him on fire by willpower alone.
"Do you think enemies of the wizarding world are a joke?" he shouted. "This is childish nonsense!"
It was as if someone had ripped open an old wound. He was shaking with fury, sucking in ragged breaths.
The applause stuttered out.
Students looked around uneasily.
The twins exchanged a look that said very clearly, Shall we or shall we not slip a few Stink Pellets into the stiff‑necked Ministry man’s pockets?
Did he expect them to bow to Dark wizards?
They would have to check whether he had a portrait of Voldemort hanging at home.
"Come now," Dumbledore said quickly. "It is Christmas. There is no need—"
A clear voice cut across him.
"Then may I ask you a question, sir?"
Ethan’s tone was cool.
He eased Luna back onto her feet and met Crouch’s eyes, his own as blue and hard as cut gems.
"If I were an enemy," he said, spacing the words, "why did you not cast Avada Kedavra on me the moment I appeared?"
Crouch faltered, anger freezing on his face.
"Ah, that…"
Ethan turned away from him.
He swept his gaze across the Hall, over row after row of blank, startled faces.
"Why," he asked, spreading his arms, voice ringing, "when you saw an attack, did no one fight back or run?"
"Do you think an enemy will knock politely just because it is Christmas Eve?"
A cold feeling slid down a hundred spines at once.
Ethan clenched his fists and sighed.
In the softest, most indulgent tone, he said, "Looks like we need more practice."
"The second task will be harder."
Everyone: …
The champions: …
Mate.
How was he any better than Mr Lamp?
Across the staff table, something in Dumbledore’s expression shifted at those words.
He jerked his head around and fixed his gaze like a hawk’s on the one person who most should not have stayed still.
A battle‑scarred ex‑Auror who jumped at the slightest threat.
Mad‑Eye Moody.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed.
