MeowthTL
patreon
HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 275
🕑 Added 2025-11-24 20:49:26 +0000 UTCChapter 275: Durmstrang & Beauxbatons – What Do You Mean We Have To Sign A Liability Waiver?
When Bagman thought of that proposal, which might as well have been titled "Operation: Exterminate the Student Body," he broke out in a cold sweat.
If he agreed to this, he would not just lose his job; he would also face criminal charges. His family’s ancestral record might not survive the fallout either.
But if he refused…
Right now, he could feel countless eyes on him.
Bagman felt like he was being roasted over an open fire, fat dripping from his paunch.
"Well, er, perhaps we could… make a few adjustments—"
"We will follow Mr Vincent’s plan," a low, hoarse voice said from the crowd.
Heads turned.
The new Minister for Magic, Scrimgeour, was looking up at Ethan.
A flicker of weariness showed on the face that was usually carved from stone.
Understandable. No matter how steely one’s resolve, anyone who had seen that monster would be shaken.
Perhaps only someone with a mind as unhinged as Mr Lamp’s could revel in such horrifying power.
Hearing him, Ethan smiled. "That would be ideal," he said. "Trust me. After my training, the champions’ skills will improve dramatically. They will be more than capable of resisting Mr Lamp’s attacks."
After all, Mr Lamp was Ethan himself. The difficulty level was his to set.
"I look forward to the results of this Tournament," Scrimgeour said with a nod.
Inside, he finally allowed himself a small breath of relief.
Fortunately, they had Ethan—this selfless hero willing to stand up and face whatever was coming. Ethan’s Morning Star Club had also played a real part in the night’s defence.
Hogwarts deserved another increase in funding. Those students were the bright new blood of the future, after all.
At that moment, the portly Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman, shouldered his way over to the Minister and whispered urgently, "Minister! You haven’t read Ethan’s proposal yet. I fear the other schools will never accept—"
"That is not your concern," Scrimgeour cut in, briskly ending the conversation.
Students had been injured at every previous Triwizard Tournament anyway. How much more dangerous could a plan designed by Ethan really be?
"Y-yes, Minister," Bagman said, lowering his head and surrendering.
In his mind’s eye, he watched his family tree drifting sadly away from him.
"Beyond that, Mr Vincent," Scrimgeour went on, "I believe the Ministry must formally commend your bravery in stepping forward tonight."
In the end, the Ministry awarded Ethan the Order of Merlin, Second Class.
When the gold medal with its purple ribbon settled against the lapel of Ethan’s black suit, nearly every young witch in Britain clipped out that photograph for safekeeping.
The Order of Merlin, Second Class.
The same grade held by Newt Scamander for his work with magical creatures and his role in opposing Grindelwald.
He was almost on Albus Dumbledore’s level now, just one step below the Headmaster’s Order of Merlin, First Class.
"And I am certain Ethan will receive one of those soon enough as well," Madam Rosmerta said, flushed and tipsy in the Three Broomsticks.
"Yes, yes, Ethan has performed here before," she told every patron in earshot, ladling embellishments over the story. "It was a sensation! A full house, everyone on their feet, applause that went on and on for his brilliant performance!"
By the time she was done, Ethan might as well have had three heads and six arms.
"To our hero—hic—our hero Ethan Vincent!" Rosmerta cried, raising her glass.
The pub answered her.
"To Ethan! To the light!"
"Cheers!"
"Light" was an airy thing that had very little to do with old bachelors who dragged their aching backs into a pub after a long day’s work to drink themselves numb.
Far too distant. About as meaningful as the Ministry’s grand promises back when You-Know-Who first fell.
In any case, it was just one more excuse to drink.
A pint later, "Ethan" and "Mr Lamp" had slipped from their minds.
New topics took their place.
"Werewolves seem to be getting more common these days…"
"Tell me about it. I woke up in the middle of the night for a piss, and a wolf howled outside. Nearly wet myself on the spot."
"Ha! All we need now is You-Know-Who’s glorious comeback!"
"At this rate, even Grindelwald might roll out of retirement for a second go!"
Outside, under the summer night, the malt scent of butterbeer drifted with the warm orange light spilling from the pub windows. Laughter rolled out with it.
Life, it seemed, had not changed at all.
At the same time, two letters, carried by great eagle owls, winged their way to the frozen north and the mild, flower-scented west of Europe.
Durmstrang Institute.
"What do they mean, ‘sign the Triwizard Tournament Risk Waiver’?" Headmaster Igor Karkaroff muttered, clutching the letter.
He frowned, scanned the details of the Tournament, and snorted. "Events to be designed solely by Ethan Vincent… oh, that upstart fourth-year, is it? The one who’s been making such a name for himself?"
The same "genius" who, back in the Secret Realm Expedition Challenge, had defeated Victor Krum—their own seeded champion—while still a first-year.
"Fwoosh."
Flames sprang from Karkaroff’s palm. In moments, the letter was reduced to ash.
He brushed the soot from his sleeve and turned to clap a hand on the solid shoulder of his prize student, Viktor Krum.
"Mr Lamp. A new ‘Saviour’," he sneered. "All puffed up by those cowardly British. Nothing but parlour tricks and illusions, and look how they quake."
"You are Durmstrang’s finest. This Tournament’s champion will be you."
He paid no heed to the shadowed faces of the other students nearby. His cold, predatory eyes were fixed on Krum alone.
"Go and show those backward British relics who the true rising star of magic is."
It was a pity Ethan would not be competing, only organising. Still, if Krum could breeze through the obstacles Ethan set, that too would prove Durmstrang’s strength.
"Yes, Headmaster," Krum said, clenching his fist, battle fire in his eyes.
Ethan… I’ll show you I’m no longer the helpless loser from three years ago. This time, I will face you through the trials you design and win.
Karkaroff was satisfied by the fire in his student’s gaze.
Then he hissed softly and pressed a hand to his left forearm.
His Dark Mark was burning again.
A shadow crossed his face.
More than any baseless talk of "Mr Lamp," what truly gnawed at him was Mark’s recent restlessness.
The mark of a Death Eater.
"Let it be my imagination," Karkaroff murmured.
Elsewhere.
Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
Fleur Delacour pressed the letter Madame Maxime had passed to her against her chest.
Staring out at the horizon beyond the window, she whispered, "Ethan, we’ll see each other again very soon. Just you wait."
Her perfect features held a mixture of anticipation and indignation. The crushing defeat three years ago was, in her eyes, the greatest blot on her proud, rose-like life.
"This time, I’ll show you someone new," she said. "Not that little girl who could only hide in a washroom, helpless."
Just then, Madame Maxime’s voice drifted over.
"Fleur, do you know what a ‘Triwizard Tournament Risk Waiver’ is? The British Ministry has just sent me the strangest form…"
