HP: The Wizard Who Paints with Magic

Oh—are you angels?

Ethan looked at Harry and Ron in surprise, feeling his heart melt.

"Thank you, my good brothers! You've been a great help!"

He pulled the two boys into a tight hug, sighing inwardly.

Whenever he was about to lose faith in humanity, someone would remind him he was still among the living. There really were good people in the world.

Ethan said sincerely, "If it weren't for you, I might have attacked Filch and his cat."

Harry and Ron: "..."

Their shy, proud smiles froze, eyes wide with horror.

Ethan, please don't!

Filch might not be a professor, but he's still staff! Attacking a staff member was a whole different level of trouble.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing—

As expected of Ethan.

A living person doing things only the dead would dare; others might only imagine it, but Ethan would actually do it.

But late at night was no time for long conversations. Hearing footsteps in the distance, Harry and Ron quickly said their goodbyes.

"If you're free tomorrow, let's go to Hagrid's hut together and ask about the Cerberus and that package!" Harry whispered.

"Alright," Ethan nodded, thinking for a moment. "I'm free in the afternoon, so let's go then?"

"Okay!"

The two boys nodded vigorously and tiptoed away.

Ethan waved as they disappeared around the corner. He turned, only to be caught in the beam of a lantern.

"Who's there?!"

Percy, the patrolling Gryffindor Prefect, stood there, holding a glass lantern high.

No wonder Percy was nervous—anyone would be startled to see a shadowy figure standing motionless under a window in the dead of night.

Ethan slowly turned his head, his smile illuminated by moonlight and the magic lamp—handsome, elegant, and perfect, yet somehow unreal.

"..."

Percy swallowed, instinctively gripping his old wand. But the next second, Ethan greeted him with a perfectly calm, "Hi, Percy. Good evening."

Clearly, nearly one in the morning was not a normal time to greet someone.

But Percy breathed a sigh of relief, straightened up, and tried to look authoritative.

"Do you know what you're doing? Illegal night wandering! And I caught you red-handed!"

Ethan blinked. "I'm sorry, but tonight I was working for Mr. Filch. I'm just heading back to the dormitory now."

"…Ah, oh."

Percy faltered, realizing that was indeed the case. When a student was given detention, the patrolling Prefects were always informed. He'd just been startled and forgotten.

"Ahem." Percy coughed, trying to regain his composure. "Are you alone? I thought I heard voices just now."

Ethan's expression didn't change. "A ghost passed by."

Before Percy could respond, Ethan yawned, rubbing his eyes and feigning exhaustion.

"If you're done, can I go back to the dormitory to sleep? My arms are aching from polishing trophies all night."

Strictly speaking, he'd only polished one glass case for the Special Contribution Award. The rest was handled by "Cleaning Up."

For some reason, even though Ethan was a first-year several years younger, Percy inexplicably lost the initiative in the conversation.

"Um, ah, okay, you go to sleep," Percy said stiffly.

He watched as Ethan politely bid him goodnight and strolled away. Percy had no idea his own younger brother had just broken several school rules and escaped right under his nose.

The next morning, Ethan—who usually went to bed early and woke early—showed up with dark circles under his eyes.

But the real disaster was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"Th-th-this scarf was given to me by an African p-p-prince when I d-d-defeated a re-re-reanimated zombie!" Professor Quirrell stammered from the podium, his purple turban perched like a Frisbee atop his head.

At first, everyone had looked forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

It was the mysterious, dangerous "Dark Arts," after all!

Even if Hogwarts didn't teach the Dark Arts, learning to defend against them was thrilling enough.

The textbook, "Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection," was fascinating—boggarts, vampires, Cornish pixies, Expelliarmus, Shield Charms, and all sorts of strange counter-curses. There were even instructions on how to magically put your intestines back in if you were hit by the Intestine-Pulling Curse—

Much better than explaining to a Muggle doctor why you'd suddenly prolapsed, if you were even conscious at the time.

Ethan's favorite case was about a Muggle child taken to another dimension by a monster—rumor had it the Department of Mysteries elevator connected to a dark, cold world. The child's mother hung fairy lights all over the house, using the flickering to communicate with her son. The Ministry of Magic had even used this as a classic case study.

Michael, however, found it terrifying. He said it would give him nightmares.

His favorite stories were the heroic deeds of Gilderoy Lockhart—especially the ones where the hero saved a damsel in distress. Ethan didn't have the heart to shatter his illusions. Next year, Lockhart's true nature would be exposed for all to see.

But no matter how exciting the textbook made things sound, Professor Quirrell ruined it all. The classroom reeked of garlic, and Quirrell's stammering, rambling lectures were almost impossible to follow. When asked how he'd defeated those monsters, he'd always offer some weather-related excuse.

Ethan sat with his head down, nose assaulted by garlic, ears ringing with meaningless chatter. His eyes were fixed on his battered textbook, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

It was torture.

A waste of time.

He was paying to suffer.

And this textbook had been bought with his hard-earned money—don't underestimate the value of second-hand books.

Even Professor Binns, droning on in History of Magic, at least genuinely taught something. But Quirrell? He wasn't teaching at all. Was this all the Dark Lord's doing?

Ethan couldn't take it anymore.

He'd stayed up late recording the Erised spell, and his brain felt like it was buzzing. A heavy, low-pressure aura surrounded him.

Bang.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor cut through Quirrell's rambling.

Everyone turned to stare at Ethan, who had suddenly stood up.

Professor Quirrell paused, forcing a stiff, confused smile. "V-Vincent? D-do you have something to say?"

Ethan smiled politely.

"Professor Quirrell, I believe you should pay me for attending this class."

(End of Chapter)

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