HP: The Wizard Who Paints with Magic

Malfoy's flushed face turned toward Professor McGonagall, his heart sinking as he watched her stern expression soften almost imperceptibly while looking at Ethan.

"Fighting between students is strictly forbidden," she declared, her voice firm. "I'm afraid I will have to deduct five points from Ravenclaw. You will also serve detention, Mr. Vincent." She paused, then her gaze, sharp as broken glass, swiveled to Malfoy. "But."

The word hung in the air, cold and heavy.

"I believe Professor Snape has already warned you about provoking other students, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her voice dangerously low. "Since you initiated this duel, you will bear the consequences."

In McGonagall's mind, the pieces clicked into place. Ethan was a diligent, studious, and impeccably polite boy. For him to strike a classmate so severely… he must have been pushed to his absolute limit. The more she thought about it, the more her anger shifted, settling squarely on the pale, trembling boy before her. The Malfoy family's upbringing was clearly a problem.

"Slytherin loses ten points. And rest assured, I will be informing your father of this." She wasn't finished. "Furthermore, you will thank Mr. Vincent for healing you, despite your past grievances. And you will swear, right now, that you will never provoke another student again."

Malfoy's mind went blank. Thank him? I have to thank him? He looked at Ethan's pure, innocent face and a single, frantic thought echoed in his skull: Hell is empty. All the devils are here at Hogwarts. Where was the justice? Where was the reason?!

But under Professor McGonagall's unwavering glare, Malfoy's resistance crumbled.

"Tha… thank you, Vincent…" he squeezed the words through clenched teeth, each syllable a fresh wave of pain. His healed cheek began to ache again, a phantom throb of humiliation. "I promise… I won't provoke you again."

As the words left his mouth, a strange sense of relief washed over him. The duel, instigated by the fury in his father's Howler, was finally over. He had been utterly, completely defeated. There was nothing more to be done. If his father dared to ask him again why he'd lost, Malfoy decided he would calmly suggest that his great and powerful father try having a "glorious warrior's duel" with Ethan himself. He was certain no wizard could defend against that monstrous, otherworldly fighting style.

"Very good," Professor McGonagall said, her tone softening as she turned back to Ethan. "Mr. Vincent, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. Come with me."

"Yes, Professor."

Ethan followed obediently, his expression placid, showing no sign that mere minutes ago he had delivered a knockout punch to a fellow student. This outcome was exactly what he had anticipated. He had no intention of causing a large-scale brawl—not yet. McGonagall's arrival had been perfectly timed. These young wizards needed to learn and to grow. And all he had to do was plant a seed in their hearts.

A seed of questioning. A seed of resistance.

A small, satisfied smile touched Ethan's lips. He kept his head bowed, trailing behind the professor as she continued to scold Malfoy, playing the part of a good student who had made a rare, regrettable mistake. Behind him, the afternoon sun cast his shadow long and thin across the lush green lawn of Hogwarts.

High above in the Ravenclaw tower, several older students had watched the entire conflict unfold. As it concluded, they couldn't help but murmur their approval.

"Not only did he win the duel," Prefect Robert Hilliard sighed with admiration, "he won the argument. That was brilliant."

Robert couldn't fathom how Ethan had performed that trick—punching through thin air. It resembled Apparition, but that was impossible for a first-year. The boy was a true genius. Robert considered himself clever, but he knew he could never have pulled off such a feat in his first year.

Penelope Clearwater, a girl with long, flowing hair and the likely candidate for the next female Prefect, leaned forward excitedly. "Should we recruit him into our study circle? Only the best and brightest can join, and Ethan definitely meets the standard!"

"But he's only a first-year," a gloomy voice cut in.

Robert and Penelope turned to see Sean Mike, a tall, gaunt boy who looked like the textbook definition of a shut-in scholar. His skin was pale, perennial dark circles ringed his eyes, and his expression was perpetually sour.

"We never recruit junior students; they're too immature," Sean said, his tone dismissive. He frowned, looking down at the distant figure of Ethan on the lawn as if he'd spotted something foul. "Cho Chang was an exception as a second-year. Besides, a boy who wins with parlor tricks and a glib tongue isn't qualified to join us."

Penelope pouted, her indignation flaring. "That's just your prejudice! In my opinion, Ethan is more capable than some of the older students—at least he doesn't make sweeping judgments about people he doesn't know."

Sean's eyes narrowed dangerously, his gaze locking with Penelope's. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken animosity.

"Alright, alright," Robert interjected, stepping between them. "Disagreements are healthy. We can discuss it without drawing battle lines. We'll all be colleagues at the Ministry one day, after all."

Sean seemed to make a great concession, withdrawing his glare. "…Fine. I agree to give Vincent an assessment period. If he does something truly earth-shattering again, we can consider recruiting him."

Penelope nodded sharply. "Deal."

Beside them, Robert, who was set to graduate and join the Ministry next year, watched their argument with a benevolent, almost fatherly smile. They were so naive, arguing over something they hadn't even considered from all angles.

Whether Ethan is even willing to join is another question entirely.

Recalling the first time in his life someone had ever slammed a door directly in his face, Robert's smile turned into a sly grin. You two should experience that feeling for yourselves. He turned his head, watching with amusement as Ethan crossed the grounds and disappeared into the castle.

What a pity, he sighed inwardly. I'm graduating soon. I'm going to miss all the turmoil he's bound to cause.

Down on the grounds, the impromptu Flying Class was dismissed. The remaining Slytherins trudged away, their faces grim. They would likely find a crowd of Hufflepuffs gathered around the House Cup hourglasses in the Great Hall, marveling that for once, they weren't in last place.

The Gryffindors, on the other hand, felt a bit unsatisfied. They had been primed for a real fight, and it had ended before it began.

"Why wasn't Malfoy given detention?" Ron grumbled indignantly. "Ethan clearly did nothing wrong!"

Seamus Finnigan scratched his head. "Uh—maybe because he's already serving two weeks of detention with Professor Snape?"

Ron blinked. "…Oh. Good point."

He fell silent, his eyes following Ethan as he walked away with Professor McGonagall. A look of envy and longing crossed his face as he replayed the scene in his mind, fantasizing about himself standing before the crowd, leading them with that same passionate fire.

Soon, the story of the duel spread like wildfire. When Ethan walked the corridors, students still gave him a wide berth, but now their wary gazes were mixed with a new, profound respect. He had shattered Slytherin's arrogance with a single punch and cemented their place at the bottom of the House Cup standings. He was a legend.

More and more Ravenclaws began to gather around him, hoping to catch his attention. This surge in popularity sent Michael Corner into a full-blown crisis. One night, he stood at the foot of Ethan's bed, his voice trembling with mournful insecurity.

"Ethan," he whispered dramatically into the darkness, "am I still your number one friend?"

Ethan, roused from his sleep, simply smiled at him in the moonlight and bestowed upon him a noble Stupefy.

The world became quiet once more.

(End of Chapter)

***

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