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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 286
🕑 Added 2025-12-03 19:07:12 +0000 UTCChapter 286: Victory…? Ethan, Is This Treasure Chest Even Safe?
"Charge!"
With twin cries of "Incarcerous!", thick ropes burst from the twins’ wands, snapped taut, and whipped through the black mist, looping again and again around the dragon’s neck.
"They’ve got some skill," Viktor Krum muttered, watching them.
If his face were not streaked with dust and soot, it might even have sounded cool.
One of his teammates already lay sprawled on the shattered rocks, groaning for his mum.
Just as well.
Krum’s eyes darkened, a hard edge cutting across his features.
He didn't need anyone else to show Durmstrang's strength.
"I have completely worked out this dragon’s attack patterns," he said with quiet confidence. "It only looks strong. It is all for show."
"When it drives that lance into the ground, that’s an area attack. The claw sweeps are just brute force. If you’re ready for them, they’re easy enough to block."
He rolled aside and flicked his wand. A rock wall surged up from the floor, met the plunging Thunderlance, and shattered into rubble, blunting the blow.
"Just as I thought."
The corner of his mouth curled. His gaze burned with certainty.
All that remained was to wait for the Hogwarts team to bring the ancient dragon down, then challenge Ethan for extra points.
He did not notice the pair of cobalt eyes watching him from high above.
Ragged wings beat slowly, black mist coiling like smoke.
Merged with the Deathbird’s form, Ethan hovered in the air, one half of his face bare bone with ghostly blue fire burning in the socket, the other still sharply handsome.
He looked down and nodded. "Good. Warm-up ends here."
He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
Beneath the swirling vortex of cloud, with the ancient dragon roaring behind him, Ethan’s dark hair whipped about his face, robes flaring. Like a king of shadows, half skull and half beauty, he smiled a "gentle" smile.
"Time to loosen the reins a little, death‑devouring curse dragon, Fulsanx."
As the words fell, the chains came off.
The black dragon reared, scales flaring.
A wave of killing intent exploded from its hideous face.
[ROAR!!!]
The ancient dragon’s call shook the world.
This time, though, it was different from the raw bellows before. Anyone with even slightly sharp hearing could catch the strange cadence in the sound, a flash of rise and fall that did not belong in a roar.
"Merlin…"
The Ancient Runes professor collapsed back into his seat, white to the lips and shaking as if he had just heard something unspeakable.
"It is chanting… a spell," he croaked.
Everyone knew dragons could use magic. Over time, most had forgotten everything but fire.
Yet here, before their eyes, a miracle was occurring.
Or for the competitors, a catastrophe.
"Hm?"
Krum sensed the shift in the air.
Amid the rolling dragon-song, he glanced down.
The hairs on his arms were standing on end.
A primal dread crept up from his gut.
Crackling scarlet arcs danced in the air around him, wriggling like a cloud of tiny electric worms.
Another lance? He thought, tightening the Armour Charm around himself and fixing his eyes on the scarlet spear clutched in the dragon’s talons, a divine rod of judgement driven into the sky.
Seconds crawled by.
Krum’s frown deepened.
Why was it not striking?
What was it waiting for?
Then he finally registered how much darker everything had grown.
And the whirl of storm above the dragon’s head, clouds coiling tighter and tighter, sagging almost to the ground.
Scarlet light flickered in the depths of the mass.
No.
This was not the earlier attack.
His pupils shrank. Every instinct screamed at once.
He slashed his wand and wrapped himself in a shell of stone from all sides.
A heartbeat later—
Boom.
Judgement crashed down.
Bolts of lightning as thick as a man’s arm plunged from the heavens. Wherever they struck, rock powdered and craters yawned.
One of them—by sheer bad luck—hit Krum dead on.
His stone cocoon burst like paper.
The bolt smashed straight through.
"Aaaargh!"
Krum screamed, baring his teeth, every muscle in his face knotted tight.
Agony tore through him from head to toe.
"Krum!"
Karkaroff slammed bodily into the rail, eyes bloodshot.
He whipped around, wild with fury and fear, to glare at Dumbledore, clearly demanding an explanation.
Dumbledore took the point.
"Now, now," he said soothingly. "There are fatalities in every Tournament, are there not?"
Karkaroff stared.
Are you hearing yourself?
Dumbledore laughed like a boy caught out in a prank. "Only jesting. Calm yourself, Karkaroff. As long as Ethan is here, nothing truly irreversible will happen."
Although the process might be… uncomfortable.
On the field, the clouds thinned.
Several smoking shapes lay where the lightning had struck.
The Beauxbatons team was out cold.
Durmstrang’s champions looked as though they were done as well.
Fulsanx snapped its jaws shut and snorted, a proud gust that sent sparks skittering. Cursed lightning crawled over its ink-black scales, making its brutal beauty even starker.
[Pathetic mortals. If not for my master’s restraint, I would have burned you all to ash long ago.]
They dangled and flailed like bugs. Annoying.
This was finished.
"Harry!"
The shout ripped through the crackling air.
The dragon’s throat jolted.
A tremendous force clamped around its neck, freezing its head and jaws alike.
[ROAR!!!]
In a paroxysm of rage, the beast strained. Magical chains wrapped around its throat and skull snapped one by one.
But the instant was enough.
The last image reflected in those golden, furious eyes was a figure hurtling straight toward it.
Harry, astride his Firebolt, knifed through the wind.
He raised his wand, emerald gaze fixed on a single upturned scale under the jaw.
"Bombarda!" he roared.
Bang.
Flame blossomed.
In slow motion, blood sprayed from the shattered scale, spattering across Harry’s face and glasses.
The dragon’s pupils pinched to slits, shock and disbelief flashing across them.
Then came incandescent fury.
A mortal dared wound it?
Unforgivable. It would rip this wretch to pieces.
It spread its jaws, fangs bared like a forest of knives.
"You are done."
The voice was clear and unhurried, without a trace of threat.
Yet it sent a jolt of terror through the dragon’s blood‑soaked visage.
[No, master, I can still—]
Its protest broke in a rush.
Its colossal body began to collapse.
Scales tumbled away. Flesh sloughed like melted wax.
A sharp, nutty, mineral tang flooded the air.
In moments, the towering ancient dragon had turned into a lake of thick, swirling pigment.
The liquid streamed upward, gathering into the painting that had appeared in Ethan’s waiting hand.
"That—that is Dark magic!" Karkaroff shouted, stunned.
He looked wildly around.
Every British official on the dais wore the expression of a man meditating on the ceiling. Not one opened their mouth.
"This is not ‘Dark’; it is Art," Dumbledore said mildly.
Karkaroff gaped.
His mind had gone completely blank.
The very first task had already shattered everything he thought he knew. It was as if British wizarding society had grown fangs and horns while he was not looking.
For the Headmaster of a school that did not ban the Dark Arts to think the British were too "uninhibited" was saying something.
The black clouds drained away.
Sunlight spilled back, a warm yellow beam spearing down like a spotlight on a stage, illuminating the pitted, shattered ground.
And the ornate chest sitting there, as if it had always been.
It stood quietly in the dust, covered in carved gems and intricate patterns, the perfect image of a treasure chest.
Everything about it begged to be opened.
We… won? Is this our loot drop?
Harry and the twins hovered in midair, stunned.
Then their brows drew together.
They looked from the chest to Ethan, smiling oh‑so‑kindly, not far away.
Every alarm bell in three years of experience rang at once.
There was definitely something wrong with that chest.
Right then, a spell lanced up from the ground.
