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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 255
🕑 Added 2025-11-13 20:13:05 +0000 UTCChapter 255: Lily’s Whisper: Unlocking Third-Tier Portrait Specialty! Announcement Day Arrives!
Werewolf blood.
The words split the dark like lightning, sunlight piercing cloud. Ethan’s eyes flew open as the blockage in his thoughts cleared in an instant.
“Yes. Werewolf blood… the blood of the one to be cured.”
He sprang up from the sofa. Cobalt eyes flashed as he paced, muttering under his breath, mind racing. On the basis they had already brewed, he began to rebuild the whole sequence with a new variable—wolf blood—spinning out the reactions and rebalancing each change.
In that moment, he was not only a prodigious artist. He meant to prove he was also truly Ravenclaw, the sharpest mind among the four houses.
In the Morning Star Club’s room, everyone fell silent at his sudden motion and stared, startled and expectant, at their president—the most undisputed genius at Hogwarts.
Ethan never let his followers down.
A crisp snap cut the air as he stopped, long fingers flicking together like flicking a switch. Breaths caught across the room. Hearts climbed into throats. Hermione flinched, cheeks flushing as her eyes shone.
“I know what we are missing,” Ethan said, a confident curve in his mouth and a blaze in the cobalt. “Werewolf blood.”
“By my calculations, the reason Shrivelfig will not integrate with moonflower at the final step is that the moonflower’s energy is too strong. It purifies the other component out of existence. But if we add the patient’s blood at the same time, and then, at the moment of peak potency, dose the transformed werewolf immediately—then in one stroke we can strip the curse and cure lycanthropy.”
His voice rolled through a room crowded with cauldrons, books, and personal odds and ends.
Hermione’s brows knit. She grabbed her notes and ran figures in a blur. Her eyes lit. “From a reagent-reaction perspective, that is feasible. But, Ethan…”
She looked up, hesitating. “If it must be given at peak potency, then we will have to brew on the day of the announcement. Live. We will have only one chance to complete the final step.”
Her eyes went wide as a hundred disasters cascaded through her mind. The potion fails. Ethan is humiliated. The Daily Prophet laughs them out of the country. He goes dark and leaves school and joins Voldemort to rule the world as a third Dark Lord—
No. She would not allow that.
“Wonderful,” Luna clapped, delighted. “Then we can show everyone the brewing process. Much more interesting.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. She folded her arms and pinned Luna with a severe stare. “We will only have one chance. What if it fails?”
“The moonflower is also down to the last,” Luna said mildly. “Either way, we will only have one chance.”
The air crackled between them. Quiet snaps of static kept everyone else hunched like quails, too nervous to speak.
Ethan has it rough, Harry thought, oddly moved.
Ethan turned suddenly. “Harry. Was your mother very good at Potions?”
Harry blinked, then nodded. “I think so. Sirius told me. My mum was one of the brightest students of her year. Top marks in everything, and her Potions professor’s favorite.”
A shadow of impatience flickered across Harry’s face. Ethan nodded slowly, thoughtful.
The voice that had whispered in his ear—of course, it was Harry’s mother. Lily Evans.
But Lily was dead. She had died on that night of the green light. Was this the effect of his third-tier painting, Lily: An Eternal Love?
[Congratulations!]
[You have triggered the hidden effect of a third-tier painting: Portrait Specialty.]
[When you base an extraordinary third-tier painting on a real historical figure, the portrait has a chance to inherit the subject’s talent.]
[Lily’s Specialty: The Potions Master’s Whisper.]
[At certain times, Lily will grant you inspiration and hints in Potions.]
A breath of laughter brushed his ear. For an instant, a woman with red hair seemed to flash across his sight.
A portrait inheriting the subject’s gift. Impossible for a second-tier living painting.
Ethan’s smile edged higher, delight sparking in his chest. History made all the difference.
That being so, wolf blood was almost certainly the right answer.
He lifted his gaze to his wavering crew and grinned, settled. “We will do it my way.”
“Do not look so grim. Cheer up. We are about to create a miracle in front of the entire wizarding world.”
On the day of the announcement, at dusk, final exams loomed. Even the most studious could not concentrate. Students crowded the lawns, shouting and craning their necks as reporters swept in like waves. There were Ministry officials they recognized from the papers, and white-bearded wizards who looked “scholarly” by virtue of their beards alone.
“Why does one of the old wizards have a sword on his belt?” Ron asked blankly.
“Look,” Dean Thomas pointed. “Rufus Scrimgeour. The new Minister.”
Heads stretched high to see the man striding at the head of the Ministry officials. He limped faintly but moved with long, decisive strides, eyes hard and sharp as an old lion’s.
The new Minister clasped Dumbledore’s hand. “Whether Ethan Vincent succeeds in brewing a cure for lycanthropy or not, his talent and ability make him a key partner for the Ministry.”
Admiration colored his tone, but he clearly did not believe Ethan would truly do it.
“We shall see,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle.
Scrimgeour looked up at Hogwarts, and a flicker of nostalgia moved in his eyes—then halted as his expression puzzled. “Why is there a… stick stuck in the castle?”
For some reason, the odd object jutting from the tower looked like a rail. A train track. Inside Hogwarts? Impossible.
Dumbledore stiffened. “A keepsake left by one of our students,” he said thinly. “Quite… artistic.”
Rita Skeeter scribbled as if possessed, cheeks flushed, tongue flicking the quill. “Ethan Vincent… crushing defeat… failed werewolf potion… hmm, which headline will sing best?”
In any case, there was no chance a third year would solve a curse Potions Masters could not. Otherwise, every old wizard present, including Hogwarts’s own Potions Master, Severus Snape, would have to kneel and knock their heads to Ethan.
At last, as the collective breath of the crowd held and trembled, the main event appeared.
“Look. Ethan!”
Heads snapped as one. Shutters rattled in a rolling wave, flashes popping bright enough to chase off Dementors. In all those eyes, a young man in black walked with quiet grace, polished as a young aristocrat. Calm, proud, strikingly handsome, tall, and clean-lined enough to draw screams from the crowd.
“Proves it,” Michael said sourly, reverent awe behind his eyes. “If you are handsome enough, they forget your terrifying habits.”
Their Ravenclaw eagle had arrived.
Behind Ethan, people spotted a detail that made them blink. A cauldron still on the flame.
“What is going on? Why bring the cauldron?”
“Is the potion not finished?”
“Is he going to finish brewing live?”
The boldness of it touched off the field like a match. A roar of voices rose and rolled across the grass.
