MeowthTL
patreon
HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 261
🕑 Added 2025-11-21 18:32:37 +0000 UTCChapter 261: Arriving at the Riddle House! Voldemort, You Won't Even Call Me Mr. Lamp
Before leaving school, Professor Lupin presented his long-delayed gift of thanks.
It was a handmade protective charm, a beautifully carved wolf's head in white stone. The eyes were a pale blue that caught the sunlight and glowed. Fine magical runes covered the surface, radiating an aura of protection and stability.
"It's made from moonstone mist," Lupin said, his smile edged with nervousness. "I engraved protective spells into it. In a crisis, it will trigger a defensive barrier."
He twisted his hands together. "It might not be as refined as what you'd find in shops, but I promise the enchantment is just as strong..."
He was clearly worried this humble gift would disappoint Ethan.
He need not have worried.
Ethan ran his fingers over the carefully carved wolf pendant, feeling the unique protective magic thrumming within. The magical world was wondrous. Many things could be bought with gold, but like the love magic that had saved Harry from his mother, heartfelt intention always carried greater power.
"I love this gift, Professor Lupin," Ethan said, lifting his head with a smile. Sunlight warmed his skin. "Something handmade is better than something bought. I accept your respect."
Lupin exhaled in relief, then laughed quietly. Respect? The boy really was precocious. And yet, facing this child of barely fourteen, Lupin found himself genuinely nervous.
The future was incalculable.
Ethan clapped Lupin's shoulder with a grave air. "I know you won't be continuing as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor next term. Some parents and the board still can't accept your identity as a former werewolf."
Lupin's expression dimmed. If he could, how he would have loved to keep teaching, to stay close to Harry as he grew.
"Which only proves our revolution is not yet complete!" Ethan declared, fist clenched, eyes blazing. "This rotten magical society needs a hard blow to wake it up."
Lupin's smile froze.
Then Ethan turned, fixing him with a disturbingly gentle gaze. "And you, my friend, will continue gathering werewolves into our glorious Morning Star Club. Your efforts will not be wasted. Our great cause will sweep the world, and your name will be sung by future generations."
Lupin fell silent. He suddenly had the urge to use a fake name and a disguise.
Your intentions are good, but maybe hold off on the singing part. He feared it would condemn three generations of his family.
As soon as the holidays began, Ethan locked himself in his studio. With every ounce of passion, he painted without rest. Reference books and discarded sketches piled into mountains around him. Waves of magical power rippled from his canvases, creating strange omens in the sky—a dark green eight-armed octopus outlined in the clouds.
Not the Dark Mark, but somehow worse.
Time slipped by. Soon, it was late August.
"Finally. All done," Ethan said, releasing a long breath.
Paint streaked his hands, clothes, and face like iridescent blood. His fingers traced the paintings lovingly, sliding over threads of darkness. The air rang with a faint shriek like nails on glass. Twisted bones cracked and snapped.
Art did not pursue power. It pursued beauty, the kind that made every viewer laugh from the heart. That was art's true meaning.
Even Voldemort deserved his full attention and respect.
"These should be enough for now."
He shrank the canvases into palm-sized cards and tucked them away. After downing an Aging Potion, he felt his perspective rise. Through the window, his gaze stretched to the distant horizon.
"Voldemort's old home. Little Hangleton."
"Let's go."
Little Hangleton was a relatively backward village. Centered around the local pub, the residents all knew each other and gossiped about domestic affairs.
Today, an uninvited guest arrived.
He was tall and straight-backed with long legs. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, grey waistcoat, and dark blue tie. In one hand, he carried a gold-topped walking stick that drew every eye.
His high-bridged nose, tender cobalt eyes, and handsome, pale face instantly set the standard for every maiden's dream man. Yet they hung back, too intimidated to approach.
From his gleaming leather boots to his precisely groomed black curls, nothing about him belonged in this backwater village.
Not until he pulled a ten-pound note from thin air like a magic trick.
The villagers' breath caught. Wariness gave way to greed as they stared at the pure and noble Miss Nightingale on the bill.
"I want to know everything about the Riddle house. Who can tell me?"
Thus, Ethan learned secrets even the Riddles themselves might not have known.
The family of three on the hill had been brutally murdered one summer fifty years ago. No blood, no poison, bodies as healthy as the living—only no longer breathing.
The victim had been wearing leopard-print briefs of a certain length—ahem, moving on.
"The biggest suspect was their gardener! The only one with a key—Frank Bryce!"
"That's right, he was an army veteran. He'd know how to kill!"
"Oh, he's fierce. I don't even dare look him in the eye. You'd best stay away from him, sir."
The villagers chattered eagerly.
In truth, Ethan knew the real killer was not the Muggle gardener but Tom Riddle himself. Young Tom, enraged to discover his father was not a noble wizard after all, had murdered his family and forged a Horcrux.
Having gathered enough information, Ethan inclined his head slightly and handed the note to the nearest villager. Then he turned toward the Riddle house, ignoring the squabble that erupted behind him.
Before the enormous, decrepit mansion, he found the old gardener still weeding with a hoe.
Hearing footsteps, Frank looked up angrily, expecting more children who thought him a murderer. Instead, he saw a gentleman.
Somehow, perhaps from his instincts honed on the battlefield, Frank tensed and gripped the hoe tighter.
This man was dangerous.
"What do you want? This is private property—"
Before he could finish, a voice laced with magic rang out. "Go home. From now on, no matter what you hear, never return to the Riddle house."
Clatter.
The hoe fell. Frank's eyes glazed over. He turned stiffly and walked home without looking back.
Ethan watched him go and murmured, "There. All prepared. Now I just wait for Voldemort to arrive."
He pressed a pure white mask to his face.
Deep in the night, all was silent.
A crack of Apparition shattered the quiet before the Riddle house.
Barty Crouch Jr., dressed in black, melted into the shadows. His eyes darted wildly, excited hisses spilling from his lips.
A hoarse voice spoke from within his robes. "Ah. This place again. How nostalgic."
The cloak shifted, revealing the horrifying, desiccated infant body beneath.
"I severed everything here once. Now my work begins again!"
Barty trembled with excitement, nodding frantically, eyes blazing with fanatic worship.
The Dark Lord needed a safe place to rest. He hurried inside the abandoned mansion, cradling Voldemort. A massive serpent slithered past.
Following his instructions, he entered the second-floor study. The smell of rot and mildew hit him. The room was dark except for faint moonlight falling across the desk.
"Put me on the sofa. Light the fireplace. Extract Nagini's venom. My good boy..."
"Yes, my Lord!"
Barty's heart soared. He had been the first to find the Dark Lord! The most loyal servant! And in this hidden place no one knew, the Dark Lord could begin his great work anew.
"Fwoosh!"
The fire flared, illuminating his face, Voldemort's emaciated form, and glittering reflections on Nagini's scales.
It also revealed a third figure.
"Good evening, little Tom. You're rather late."
The room fell deathly still.
Behind the moonlit desk, a chair slowly turned.
A tall figure sat in an elegant suit and eerie white mask, as if he were the master of this house. One leg crossed casually over the other, he stroked a purring, rolling cat in his lap.
When was he there?!
It was like being doused in ice water. Barty’s blood froze.
He stared at the figure, body rigid.
He had walked right past without sensing a thing.
Time seemed to stop until the fire popped.
Voldemort shrieked, "Kill him now!"
Barty snapped back, jerking up his wand. "A-Avada Kedavra!"
Green light shot forth.
But a flash of silver met it, and the Unforgivable Curse shattered like glass against stone.
Impossible!
Barty's eyes went wide with disbelief. The man sat unharmed. He had not even spoken.
"Your hospitality is quite... enthusiastic. I'm flattered," the masked man said, smile curling behind the mask.
He regarded the two shocked figures and enunciated each word clearly.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lamp. You may call me—"
"Mr. Lamp."
