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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 258
🕑 Added 2025-11-16 17:07:56 +0000 UTCChapter 258: Gaining the Painting “The Waiting Wolf Girl” – “I Will Wait Until We Meet”
Every gaze locked onto Ethan.
Inwardly, a silent tidal wave roared through the crowd.
Refuse! Refuse! Refuse!
For one brief moment, witches and wizards of all ages, ranks, and stations were united in a single wish.
“Yes. I would be delighted to contribute to the public good,” Ethan said, taking Minister Scrimgeour’s outstretched hand, a hint of approval in his eyes.
Inviting him to serve as host for next term’s Triwizard Tournament… not bad. This new Minister knew how to read the room.
He might be worth keeping around for a while.
Up in the stands, a chorus of groans broke out.
Oh no. The evil little painter’s tentacles had reached the Ministry after all.
Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Wait. So, Ethan holding that big public trial and forcing Fudge to resign… was it all to put a more perceptive Scrimgeour in office? Was this all part of Ethan’s plan?”
She looked up at Ethan’s faint smile and felt a storm crash through her chest.
Too powerful. Too unbelievable. It was as if he held everyone in the palm of his hand. Even fate seemed to bow its head and let him rearrange it.
“The distance between me and Ethan… It’s too great,” Hermione whispered. “I might never catch up in this lifetime.”
Yet her eyes burned with hungry light.
Luna glanced at the excited Hermione and thought, pleased, Ethan really did have a lot of friends. When the holidays came, she would invite them all to the little house she shared with him.
Out on the pitch, Minister Scrimgeour relaxed slightly now that Ethan had agreed. Inwardly, he reasoned: Ethan was barred from competing only because he had badly injured a classmate during the first-year tournament. There should be no other issues. Making him host would allow his talents to shine and give foreign students an unforgettable, one-of-a-kind tournament experience.
The thought of the shock on the visiting schools’ faces made Scrimgeour nod in satisfaction.
“In addition,” he said, “Mr Vincent, would you consider entrusting the cure’s recipe to the Ministry of Magic?”
Ethan considered for a heartbeat, then asked sincerely, “Are you dreaming?”
Scrimgeour: “…”
“We could purchase it for a high price—”
“I have money,” Ethan said.
Scrimgeour fell silent. Who, exactly, was in charge of disciplining this impossible boy?
“Besides,” Ethan added, “this potion uses ingredients only my club members can grow, and a light-aspected magic that only I possess. In other words…”
He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, cobalt eyes locking onto the Minister.
“Only I can cure werewolves.”
Scrimgeour’s rock-hewn face grew a little damp. “A terrifying young man,” he thought.
He nodded slowly, far more cautious than before. His gaze flicked to Professor Lupin, and his normally stern face twisted into something like a smile.
“The Ministry can help arrange things for Professor Lupin and will also pay greater attention to the social issues surrounding werewolves.”
Even so, Ethan, holding the only cure, would become the natural lodestar of werewolves everywhere. Perhaps even the core of a frightening new military power.
Scrimgeour’s head began to throb. Suddenly, he felt a powerful urge to strangle Cornelius Fudge for resigning early and sticking him with this mess.
“Also, Scrimgeour,” Ethan said.
The casual use of his surname made the Minister’s mouth twitch.
“I heard the Ministry has offered Sirius Black quite a lot in compensation for its mistake. I think there’s still something missing.”
“Name it, Mr Vincent,” Scrimgeour said at once. “The Ministry will do everything in its power to accommodate you.”
“I am a very just and law-abiding person,” Ethan said. “All I want is for the Ministry to add a little ‘fun’ to one Azkaban prisoner’s miserable life.”
He drew a painting from his robes: the screaming portrait he had won when he shattered what was left of young Tom’s soul, The Scream.
Ethan’s eyes bent in a gentle smile. “Take this and show it to a Death Eater named Bellatrix. Tell her: your master is dead.”
From what he remembered, Bellatrix had tortured and murdered more than a few people.
“Bellatrix Lestrange?” Scrimgeour said, startled.
That lunatic was infamous.
Did Ethan have a grudge against her?
He took the painting and nodded grimly. “Consider it done. We will give her… special treatment.”
There was no need for mercy when dealing with a mass-murdering Death Eater.
“I’ll look forward to the news,” Ethan said, his smile widening, bright and righteous.
Even Scrimgeour, hardened as he was, shivered.
The announcement day ended.
The wizarding world did not calm down.
On every visible and hidden front, countless factions stirred, frantically trying to learn more about the genius boy who had created the cure for lycanthropy: Ethan Vincent.
For a time, his name swept through the British magical community and began to echo abroad. People called him “the new Saviour,” convinced he would lead them into a brighter future.
At the same time, in unnoticed shadows, a former werewolf extended a hand and pulled one companion after another to their feet, gathering them in secret into an organisation called the Morning Star Fellowship.
While the outside world shook with a quake Ethan had triggered, its source lay in quiet and peace.
Ancient times. 1613.
Black family manor.
Ethan stood by the dark green bed curtains, watching as the woman on the soft mattress slowly opened her eyes. “As promised, I’ve come to see you,” he said with a smile.
He shook the empty potion vial in his hand.
Thanks to his precise control over the brew, he had not used all the moonflower on announcement day. The remainder had been enough for one more dose. Using the silver key, he had travelled back and poured the cure down the throat of Eve Black, who lay unconscious.
Aside from the werewolf curse, the delicate magic on her kept her body unchanged despite nearly a year bedridden, preserving her like a sleeping beauty.
Her eyes—darker and deeper green than Harry’s—blinked twice.
She did not ask why he was there or what had happened to him. Instead, she slowly lifted a hand and traced the line of his cheek from just a hair’s breadth away, her lips curving into a softness that softened even her sharp features.
“I have been waiting for you, Light,” she whispered. “I knew you would come for me.”
For a heartbeat, the moment froze.
It condensed into a painting that drifted before Ethan’s eyes.
[“The Waiting Wolf Girl”]
[Type: Commemorative Painting]
[Tier: Unrankable]
[Description: “I want to devour you, to mingle flesh and blood, so that you will never leave me again… The wolf girl smiles as she waits.”]
[Effect: Contains the power of guardianship. You may repaint this work to awaken its strength.]
[Evaluation: “Tell me, if Little Red Riding Hood never comes, what is the Big Bad Wolf supposed to do?”]
