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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 262
🕑 Added 2025-11-21 18:32:42 +0000 UTCChapter 262: Voldemort: Incredible! This Guy Is Even More Pure Than Me?!
Mr. Lamp?
Barty's eyes trembled.
In the rare moments when his mind was clear, he had heard his father mention that name. Last year, right under Dumbledore's nose, someone had blown up Hogwarts. The news had been so shocking that the foolish Ministry, afraid of causing a panic, forcibly suppressed the incident.
He never expected the mysterious Mr. Lamp to appear before them now.
Seeing it with his own eyes, he truly understood just how terrifyingly powerful the man who had bombed Hogwarts really was.
Barty gripped his wand tight, tense and wary, tongue flicking nervously at the corner of his mouth.
Then Voldemort's weak voice spoke. "How did you know about this place… and that we would come here?"
A soft laugh answered.
"Because I know everything. Is that explanation sufficient?" A voice like aged wine, elegant and mellow, came from behind the pure white mask.
Silver moonlight draped over him. The cat in his lap yawned lazily.
In the hands of this mysterious and powerful Mr. Lamp, even such a small creature could rest without worry.
Infuriated by the casual attitude, Barty roared, "Know everything? Are you mocking us—"
"Silence, fool."
Barty's whole body shook. He turned, staring at his master in shock and fear.
His master had just scolded him for the sake of an outsider?
Barty's heart bled, but he did not dare disobey. He could only bow and retreat in grievance, glaring at Mr. Lamp with mounting resentment, like a wronged wife.
Noticing that intensely felt gaze, Ethan touched his own face.
Is my appearance so striking that it comes through even with the mask? Sometimes being too handsome is also a burden.
Voldemort's hunched, shrivelled form shifted on the sofa. He spoke with caution and respect. "A seer, then. A powerful ability indeed. What is your purpose?"
Ethan said simply, "I want to see rivers of blood."
Voldemort paused.
"No, I do not mean that shallow desire. I mean something more long-term, something with greater—"
"I want to see rivers of blood," Ethan repeated.
Voldemort fell silent again.
Oh no. This one is a true devotee of slaughter.
Voldemort felt a surge of respect and straightened his spine. "Are you asking me to… prepare an occasion for you to kill freely?"
Oh? Little Voldy, not bad at reading the room.
Ethan inclined his head slightly. It was not entirely a lie. The Necronomicon required large amounts of blood to unlock. With Voldemort gathering more dark wizards, there would be more willing to dedicate their lives to the great cause.
"Meow!"
The cat on his lap suddenly shrieked and bolted out the window.
Barty snorted.
Seeing his master did not object, he hissed, "If you want slaughter, why not kill Muggles? There are plenty in this very village!"
Ethan fell silent, as if thinking, and did not immediately answer.
Barty grew pleased, thinking he had struck a nerve in this so-called Mr. Lamp. He barked, "Could it be you cannot bear to kill those filthy Muggles? Ha! So weak, and yet you dare come to the Dark Lord seeking cooperation—"
At that, Mr. Lamp tilted his head and asked, genuinely puzzled, "You are willing to let the lives of Muggles defile your spells?"
Barty froze.
Mr. Lamp continued. "An elephant never counts how many ants it has trampled in its life, nor does it seek ants out to step on them. Those weak, non-magical creatures who die in strange ways even if left alone… what benefit would I gain from killing them?"
Hearing words spoken from the heart, the other two in the room fell silent.
Pure. Too pure. A natural-born dark wizard constitution.
Barty stared at Ethan in shock, a chill crawling up his spine.
That icy, indifferent tone when he spoke. This man truly believed he was no longer the same species as them—but something higher, something stronger.
For a moment, Barty seemed to see a monster wearing human skin sitting before them.
"Heh heh heh…"
From the sofa came a sinister chuckle.
Barty shivered and looked at his master.
On Voldemort's terrible face was an expression of approval and admiration, as if he had finally met someone who understood him. An expression he had never before shown to Barty.
Barty clenched his fists. He had been here first.
"Very good, very good!" Voldemort stretched out his withered arms, trembling with excitement. His gaze toward Ethan held a touch of fervour. "After all these years, the world has finally produced another talent who shares my vision!"
"I can feel it. The bottomless darkness hidden in your heart."
What “darkness”? That’s pure, blinding light, thank you very much. Voldemort really has no taste. Ugh.
Behind his mask, Ethan rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Rest assured," Voldemort said. "If you and I cooperate, there will be as much slaughter and bloodshed as you could want. And my goal is actually quite simple."
I know. Kill Harry, right? Same old story.
Ethan lounged back, listening without much interest.
Voldemort's chicken-claw hand dug into the sofa. Even weakened, the bone-deep hatred in his voice was unmistakable. "I will kill Ethan Vincent!"
Mr. Lamp, also known as Ethan Vincent: "??"
"Cough, cough…" Ethan covered his mouth, coughing lightly to hide his shock.
Wait, what? Why is the main target me? I only killed you twice! Surely you are not that petty? Tsk. With that kind of pettiness, you are not even worth one of Grindelwald's toes.
Inwardly, Ethan was full of contempt.
He leaned forward, intrigued. "Do tell."
Voldemort: "…"
Why does this man talk about murder as though he is planning a picnic?
A sense of wrongness nagged at Voldemort. Something did not add up. But he quickly attributed the oddness to Mr. Lamp being too inhuman. It was his first time dealing with someone like this. Of course, it felt strange.
"As it happens, the first step of my plan… You and Barty will carry it out together," Voldemort said. His eyes gleamed with a hint of testing intent. "Capture the most famous retired Auror—Mad-Eye Alastor Moody."
"Hiss…"
The serpent Nagini slid slowly across the floor. Her orange-yellow slit pupils reflected Ethan's tall, slender silhouette.
Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
"Ahhh!"
Harry woke from the soft bed, back drenched in sweat. He clutched his forehead scar in pain. It burned as if someone had pressed a red-hot poker to it.
But more important was the dream he had just had.
What do I do? I cannot tell the Dursleys. But bothering Headmaster Dumbledore with this seems like making a mountain of a molehill.
As Harry's thoughts spun in confusion—
Bang!
His door flew open. Sirius burst in like a whirlwind and was at Harry's side in an instant. "What happened? I heard you scream! Is your scar hurting again?"
That was when Harry remembered.
He was not suffocating at the Dursleys'. He was living with his godfather, the person closest to him in the world, Sirius Black, who had only recently been cleared of all charges. They had moved together into the grand ancestral home.
Harry's low spirits began to swell. And all of this was thanks to Ethan.
At the same time, Harry remembered his dream.
That pure white mask—he would never forget it.
No need to hesitate. The person he could confide in was right in front of him. Harry blurted urgently, "Mr. Lamp is going to kill Ethan!"
