HP: The Wizard Who Paints with Magic

Lucius Malfoy curled his lips into a self-satisfied smile as he watched Ethan and Draco "reconcile." At the same time, a faint but sharp pang of heartache pierced through him. Seven hundred Galleons, while manageable, was no small sum. Over the years, he had funneled a considerable fortune into affairs related to the fallen Dark Lord, greasing palms and building connections. While he had channels for acquiring rare items, seven hundred Galleons in solid gold, plus a priceless bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm, was a tangible loss. He had never spent so much on a child who was neither family nor a close ally.

However, Lucius, drawing on years of shrewd investment experience, saw immense potential in Ethan Vincent. The boy was a budding asset. In the future, he could very well become a prominent figure in the Ministry of Magic. His name could resound throughout the wizarding world, revered by all. The House of Malfoy had already made one grave error by siding with the Dark Lord. This time, surely, there would be no mistake.

Thinking of this, Lucius felt a fresh wave of irritation toward his own son. Harry Potter. Ethan Vincent. The two boys he had explicitly told Draco to befriend were the very two he had managed to offend.

"Draco, why haven't you apologized to Mr. Vincent yet?" Lucius snapped, his voice cold.

"S-sorry…" Draco mumbled, his head bowed so low his voice was nearly inaudible.

Lucius's eyebrow twitched, ready to scold him further, but Ethan intervened.

"Don't be so hard on Draco," Ethan said, his eyes curving into a smile. "We're all friends here. There's no need for such formality." He then clapped Malfoy enthusiastically on the shoulder, patting him so hard that the boy trembled like a small snake cornered by a hawk.

"Well then, we shall take our leave," Lucius said, nodding at Ethan before giving his son a final, withering glance. "I must take Draco home for two days of reflection. It seems he hasn't yet adapted to life at Hogwarts and is associating with some… undesirable people." He recalled the unpleasant, loud-mouthed girl, Pansy Parkinson. Pure-blood, yes, but far too scatterbrained. He had heard she, too, had been sent home for a period of reflection. Hmph. Served her right.

Just as they were turning to leave, a timid figure approached them. It was Professor Quirrell, still swathed in his ridiculous, oversized purple turban. His posture was stooped, and a strong, pungent smell of garlic clung to him like a shroud.

Lucius recoiled in disgust, his nose wrinkling.

"M-M-Mr. Malfoy!" Quirrell stammered, a strange and hidden glint in his eyes. "I-I-I would like to i-invite you to…"

"I'm sorry, but we don't have time to waste," Lucius interrupted, waving him away with his snake-headed cane as if shooing a fly. He strode forward, not even bothering to look at the professor. He then paused. "Oh, and one more thing." He turned his head, his gaze settling on Quirrell's large turban. "Your headwrap smells rotten. I cannot accept my son's professor suffering from some affliction that must be covered up. Perhaps it's Dragon Pox."

The insult was sharp and public. "I will be suggesting to the other school governors that we find you another, more suitable placement."

Having delivered his final, venomous barb, Lucius swept away with his son, not looking back. A faint, itchy sensation prickled his left forearm.

Professor Quirrell was left standing alone, his smile frozen and awkward, a subtle tremor running through his entire body. If one looked closely, a flicker of raw terror could be seen in his eyes.

Off to the side, Ethan was about to explode from holding back his laughter. He desperately pinched his palm, trying to prevent a full-blown cackle from erupting in the middle of the corridor. Laughing at Lord Voldemort to his face and calling him a Dragon Pox sufferer! Lucius, your brand of sarcasm is truly unparalleled.

As if to diffuse the awkward silence, Quirrell turned to Ethan and forced a strained smile. "Mr. V-V-Vincent, c-congratulations on receiving sponsorship from the Malfoys…"

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Sponsorship? This is the compensation I am owed for my emotional distress."

Quirrell just managed a weak, "Haha." He truly didn't know who should be compensating whom for emotional distress in this situation.

Clutching his new money bag, Ethan felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction. He was already composing a shopping list in his head. He turned and saw Michael's face contorted in a mask of dramatic betrayal.

"Ethan, oh, Ethan," Michael said, shaking his head with profound disappointment. "How could you accept money from the Malfoys? You've been tainted by their filthy gold! You're no longer the pure Ethan I once knew!" Damn it, he thought, seven hundred Galleons! Michael was so jealous he felt like his cellular structure was destabilizing. You said you would lead us to strike down the enemy! How did you end up siding with them?!

Ethan chuckled softly, shaking his head. He looked at Michael with the benevolent gaze of an elder watching a child's tantrum. "Michael," he began gently, "the Malfoys' money was plundered from the people. So, if I earn their money and then use it to benefit everyone, isn't that just returning what was stolen?" He placed a hand on his chest. "Someone has to bear this shame. So why not me? I will bear it. I will take on this burden!"

Michael blinked. That… that actually makes some sense. When put that way, Ethan's sacrifice was quite noble. After all, all he gained was rotten, uninteresting money, while having to endure the envy and hatred of others.

Ethan patted Michael's shoulder, satisfied. A teachable youth. He enjoyed making friends with such intelligent, insightful people. Leaving the simple little fool to ponder in place, Ethan turned away, a barely suppressed, sinister grin spreading across his face.

Plan complete. What an unexpected windfall.

He would, of course, use this money to benefit the public. For example, by preparing a thrilling—oh no, a moving—art exhibition for Halloween.

"Heh, heh heh…"

Ethan chuckled softly to himself. As the students around him collectively took a terrified step back, he headed for the Owlery to place his order. And while he was at it, he'd buy Luna some strange little trinkets. A reusable, palm-sized Gnome Guillotine, perhaps. Portable, educational, and perfect for a child's early enlightenment.

The path ahead was clear.

Monday evening arrived, and Ethan followed Filch to the Trophy Room for his detention. The glow of the moon streamed through the high windows, casting an ivory light across his face. The corridor was silent save for their footsteps and the silent tread of Mrs. Norris, whose bony frame and dull fur moved like a phantom beside them. Her orange-red eyes glowed with a glassy, predatory light.

Click.

Filch unlocked the door to the Trophy Room. A thick, musty smell rushed out, and a cloud of dust billowed from the floor.

"This room is reserved for troublemakers like you," Filch grinned, his voice dripping with malicious glee. "Tonight, you will wipe every single one of these trophies clean. With a rag! No magic allowed!"

But Ethan wasn't listening. His attention was fixed on a tall, shrouded object standing near the window. A heavy cloth concealed its shape, blocking the moonlight. Beneath the drape, the faint outline of claw-shaped supports was visible.

For some reason, as he stared at it, the magic within him stirred. A deep, inexplicable desire to pull back the cloth rose from the very core of his being.

(End of Chapter)

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