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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 248
🕑 Added 2025-11-10 19:24:19 +0000 UTCChapter 248: Painting "The Roller Coaster to the Land of Light" Be Stripped of Everything and Atone
[Name: "The Roller Coaster to the Land of Light"]
[Type: Scene Painting]
[Tier: Second Tier · Blue Precious]
[Effect: My friend, on the long ascending track, you will recall your short and sinful life—until the fall.]
When Pettigrew regained consciousness, he found himself strapped into a seat. It was rising slowly at an angle close to ninety degrees.
Like a Muggle roller coaster.
What was happening now?
Pettigrew began to shake. Bloodshot eyes strained wide. A whimper broke through his fear.
He would rather face Dementors in Azkaban than enter another “painting.” It was too torturous, too cruel.
“Help me... help me...”
He twisted uselessly in the harness. No one answered.
The pain left by the Cruciatus still skittered along his nerves like jolts of electricity. He stared in terror at the track climbing into infinity, not knowing what new hell waited ahead.
It felt like a blade descending slowly toward his skull.
Crushed by regret, Pettigrew thought, If I had known that ten years later a cursed painter like this would appear, I would not have dared join Voldemort even if I had a hundred lives.
Just as fear and despair peaked, the darkness beside him rippled and showed a familiar figure.
James Potter.
Younger than in memory. He held a broomstick, a cocky, confident smile on his face, and reached out a hand.
“Come on, Peter! Watch me train. They say I’m a once-in-a-century Seeker!”
Pettigrew froze.
Memories even he had nearly forgotten flickered to life before his eyes.
He saw his own timid, looked-down-upon self, and how thrilled he had been to be invited along. He saw himself lending James his homework to copy, meeting Sirius, being dragged around the castle by the two of them, driving Professor McGonagall to deduct points from their house again and again.
He saw himself meet Lupin, that withdrawn, gloomy boy. He learned Lupin’s secret, that he was a werewolf. So in the second year, the three of them forced themselves to learn the Animagus transformation. It took three years, but they succeeded.
Pettigrew saw his first transformation into a gray rat and felt how purely joyful it had been. It had been magic to help a friend, not a tool for hiding and running.
Gradually, the pain seemed to recede. He sank into memories he had twisted and forgotten, and hot tears rolled from his eyes.
Even the golden radiance pouring down from the vanishing-point above—melting his grimy skin like wax—went unnoticed.
He remembered. How happy they had been then. How completely they had trusted each other. Trusted him enough to place their lives in his keeping without hesitation.
But—
The vision snapped off. Faces turned. One after another, every figure became James.
A thousand Jameses spoke in one voice.
You betrayed us.
The ascent stopped.
The fall began.
“Ahhhhh!”
Wind howled past his ears. The sensation of falling was a massive hand clamping down on his heart. Blood roared to his head. Pettigrew screamed as the ground rushed up to devour him. His body tumbled. He glimpsed the golden light turning away in the sky.
And Ethan Vincent’s face, bared at last beneath the demon mask. Inhumanly handsome. In Pettigrew’s eyes, it was more terrifying than before.
Ethan’s mouth formed a single, silent word: “Bye.”
The ground split in a roar. A gaping maw opened and swallowed Pettigrew whole.
In darkness, he felt himself being eaten. His body, and with it the newfound sweetness of those memories, were digested to nothing.
He could no longer remember how he’d met them. Even James’s face slipped away.
No. No.
That is my only precious thing. Do not take my last treasure.
Mercy. Mercy.
Despair swallowed him before death.
He began to cry.
This time, it was not from fear. It rose from true remorse.
I am sorry. I am sorry.
James, Lily, Sirius, Lupin. I am not worthy to be your friend.
Harry, use me. Let me be of one last use.
Let me become—become—
Wha%*&t%0...?
With the final scrap of memory consumed, Peter Pettigrew became part of the life energy.
“Chiu!”
The stag head keened for the fleeting taste. Golden tears spilled and drummed onto the ground, then mimicked form—becoming a warrior with a rat’s head and two dagger-sharp claws. It stood in silence.
Perhaps one day “it” would atone with action.
With a final tremor, the stag’s head withdrew.
At Hogwarts’ windows, everyone stared, stupefied.
They stared at the former Pettigrew, now turned to a “brass sculpture.”
A shudder passed through the entire body of the hall like a wave.
Too strange. Too terrible.
What on earth was that? What had Ethan done to Pettigrew to turn him into that?
“Merlin,” an Auror muttered as he crossed himself. “May this rising sun never stray from the path.”
Otherwise, if they were ever ordered to arrest Ethan, they would strike right there and refuse.
Even Dumbledore trembled slightly. The shock of Ethan’s unending stratagems was less piercing than the pain of seeing Hogwarts destroyed once again.
“Mr. Vincent,” Dumbledore said. “Was it necessary for the roller coaster to pierce the exact center of the school?”
From bottom to top, like a skewer through roast meat.
Ethan nodded gravely. “A necessary sacrifice for the greater plan.”
Next term would be the Triwizard Tournament. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would lodge at Hogwarts. When meeting old friends, it was only proper to offer a small surprise.
Ethan lifted his gaze to the Headmaster, who seemed very content to let things be, and said with regret, “Times are changing, and Hogwarts alone stands still. If students from other schools visit, should we show them a pile of dusty bricks?”
Dumbledore said nothing. He understood. He simply wondered whether “progress” had to move quite so fast.
Well. There had been no word that any other school would visit Hogwarts. Let Ethan make his spectacle.
That thought calmed him. He turned and fixed the Aurors with a stern look.
“Is there anyone who still wishes to take my student away?”
A forest of shaking heads. Wiping sweat from their brows.
Let Hogwarts enjoy this demon king.
Just then, Malfoy jogged up and leaned to whisper in Ethan’s ear. “That Auror, Dawlish, ran off. He’s going back to the Ministry to report to Fudge, I bet. Should we kill our way over?”
Ethan turned. Meeting Malfoy’s excited eyes, he shook his head. “Kill our way over? Do I seem that violent?”
Malfoy blinked. “Aren’t you?”
Ethan smiled.
Malfoy jolted and backpedaled. “Yes, yes—no, no! My mistake, forgive me.”
Sweat trickled down his spine. He worried that one wrong word and Ethan would turn him into a golden statue, too.
Ethan looked away at last and curved his lips. “No need to rush. I already set the pieces.”
“Some people won’t shed a tear until they see the coffin; they won’t wake up until the body’s right before their eyes.”
A spark of gold flickered at his fingertip. A small golden bird, hunting Dawlish, winged toward the Ministry. It would guide men to treasure.
And pin its prey on thorns like a butcher’s bird.
