The dust slowly settled, swirling faintly in the dim light.
Ethan Vincent, with a mischievous glint in his cobalt blue eyes, pinched Harry Potter's cheek—the so-called Savior's face was soft and pliable under his fingers. He ran a hand through his own dark hair, tousled from the chaos, trying to tame it. After a few futile attempts, he gave up with a theatrical sigh. His gaze shifted to the corner, where a cluster of onlookers stood frozen, like statues caught in a Petrificus Totalus.
Caught in the act, huh? Ethan's lips curled into a wicked grin, and he offered a slight, elegant bow. "Good evening, Professor," he said, his voice dripping with charm. After a beat, he added with a smirk, "The troll's no longer a problem, so no need to fret."
The group stared in stunned silence.
Worried about the troll? their expressions seemed to scream. Hardly!
"Congratulations!" a spectral voice chimed in his mind. "Your performance has left an indelible mark on all who witnessed it!"
"Soul fusion degree increased!"
"36% → 37%"
Another jump! Ethan's eyes sparkled with delight. The 4% surge he'd felt before had been exhilarating, and though 1% seemed modest, he could feel magic coursing through him like a gentle stream, replenishing what he'd spent. The faint weariness in his limbs melted away, leaving him invigorated.
Given time, he'd shatter more chains and unleash power that would make the wizarding world tremble. His grip tightened on his wand, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes as he stared at it, the wood almost humming under his touch.
"You have met one of the promotion conditions: Perfect Brush."
Perfect Brush: A flawless harmony with magic, enabling seamless spellcasting. The wand becomes an extension of the self, transforming magic into paint for spontaneous creation—paint infused with power far surpassing ordinary pigments.
"Skill Lv1: Lifelike Imagination Promotion Conditions:"
"① Obtain Perfect Brush [Achieved]"
"② Soul fusion degree reaches 40%"
"③ Create and use a First-Tier Epic Purple"
"Upon promotion, you will unlock advanced techniques and higher-tier painting skills."
"Note: If a Golden Legend is a fleeting burst of brilliance, like fireworks fading into the night, an Epic Purple is eternal. No matter its rank, it endures through history, remembered forever—like Hogwarts itself."
Azure subtitles shimmered before Ethan's eyes, glowing with promise. His pupils constricted as he absorbed the words. Skill promotion…! His current Lv1 Lifelike Imagination, a gift from his past life, was already formidable. What heights could he reach if he advanced? What secrets of the world would unfold before him?
His heart thundered—thump, thump!—his eyes blazing like twin stars. He was ravenous to discover what lay beyond the promotion.
The first condition, Perfect Brush, was already his. His magic could now replace mundane paint, a boon for crafting extraordinary works. The second, soul fusion, stood at 33%—only 7% shy of the goal. It wasn't trivial, but Ethan was confident he could bridge the gap within his first year at Hogwarts. A few more spectacles like tonight's Halloween stunt, or perhaps one grand, earth-shaking event, would do it.
The third condition, however, was a mystery: "Create a First-Tier Epic Purple." The system described it as a singular, eternal creation, etched into history's tapestry. Ethan's previous works, The Portal and Eris's Call, were already masterpieces—Golden Legends, radiant but fleeting. An Epic Purple was something more, something immortal. But how to achieve it? He had no clue where to begin.
"First, I'll push soul fusion to 40%," Ethan murmured, his voice low and resolute. "Higher fusion might spark the inspiration I need."
The thought flickered and faded as rapid footsteps echoed, halting abruptly before him. Ethan looked up, meeting the blazing eyes of Professor McGonagall. Her face was a storm of fury, her eyebrows arched high, her frame trembling as if she might transform into a cat and pounce.
"I—I simply cannot believe it!" she sputtered, her voice quivering with indignation. "What were you thinking, Mr. Vincent? Sneaking out to challenge a troll?"
"Do you realize you could have died?!"
Harry and Ron jumped in, voices urgent. "No, Professor McGonagall, Ethan was—"
"Silence!" Her glare could've melted stone, and the trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—shrank back like scolded first-years, heads ducked low.
"And you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," she continued, her voice sharp as a wand's tip. "Would any of you care to explain what exactly happened here?"
Silence fell, heavy as a Dementor's presence.
Professor Snape's lips twisted into a smug smirk, his dark eyes glinting with malicious delight. The famous Harry Potter and that insufferable, joke-cracking Vincent—both caught in one glorious misstep. Ethan's usual excellence in Potions had left Snape grasping for faults, unable to deduct points. The boy's stellar performances in other classes had even earned Ravenclaw a tidy sum of points. But now? Now Snape had him. Attacking a professor—however justified—was a golden opportunity. Those five points he'd grudgingly awarded Ethan earlier would vanish under McGonagall's wrath.
"Because of your actions tonight, Mr. Vincent," McGonagall declared, "Ravenclaw will lose twenty points, and you'll serve detention—"
"Professor, it was me!" A tearful cry cut through her words.
Hermione Granger stood trembling, her eyes red, lips bitten raw, but her voice was resolute. "It's my fault, Professor McGonagall."
McGonagall froze, her anger wavering. Snape's triumphant smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. Another twist?
Hermione took a shaky breath, her gaze steady. "They were looking for me. I came to find the troll because I—I thought I could handle it alone. I've read about them in books, studied their weaknesses."
She met McGonagall's eyes, unwavering. "Ethan, Harry, and Ron—they came to find me. If it weren't for them, I'd be dead."
The corridor fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in.
Snape's face darkened, his expression as sour as a poorly brewed potion. McGonagall blinked, processing the revelation. Her cheeks flushed faintly as she glanced at Ethan, who stood quietly, his expression unreadable.
"Oh… I see," she said at last, her voice softer. She'd misjudged him. Ethan hadn't been showing off or chasing glory—he'd risked his life to save a friend. His past excellence flooded her mind: his precision in Transfiguration, his flair in Charms. And tonight, she'd seen Harry standing protectively in front of him, only for Ethan to cast a spell that sent the troll reeling. Eccentric, yes, but his heart was true—brave, kind, with a spark of Gryffindor courage despite the Sorting Hat's choice of Ravenclaw.
He reminded her of a young Filius Flitwick, the dueling prodigy. She glanced at Professor Flitwick, catching the gleam of pride in his eyes. He was practically vibrating with excitement, no doubt planning to shower Ethan with points later for his spellwork.
Composing herself, McGonagall spoke firmly. "If that's the case, I won't retract Ravenclaw's points. Miss Granger, you foolish girl—how could you think you could face a mountain troll alone?"
Hermione bowed her head, silent.
"Because of this, Gryffindor will lose five points. As for you three…" McGonagall's gaze swept over Harry and Ron, who looked nervous, and Ethan, who was infuriatingly calm. "Each of you will earn five points for your houses, and I'll inform Professor Dumbledore of this. You may go."
The trio hurried off, Ron muttering under his breath. "Deducting points from Ravenclaw? That's not fair! Ethan saved us!"
Harry shushed him, glancing back to see Ethan waving lazily, as if urging them to hurry—oblivious to the fact that their common rooms were in opposite directions. Ethan didn't mind; they'd walk together a little longer. With a grin, he stepped forward.
A gentle tug on his robe stopped him. Professor Flitwick, his diminutive frame bouncing with enthusiasm, leaned in. "When you return to the common room, would you show the others that spell of yours? It was extraordinary!"
"I'll be there to watch," Flitwick added, winking. "If you can cast like that, I'll have to award points for your impeccable wandwork."
His eyes shone with unabashed pride, a teacher thrilled by a student's potential. Ethan's grin widened.
"Cough, cough." McGonagall's pointed cough echoed from ahead.
"Oh, I must go!" Flitwick chirped, scampering off with surprising speed.
Ethan chuckled at his Head of House's energy. Across the corridor, Sean Mike seethed, his face flushed with jealousy, teeth gritted. Prefect Robert shot him a sidelong glance before speaking in a cool, commanding tone. "Don't forget your promise, Mr. Mike."
The promise: to invite Ethan Vincent to join the club—whether Ethan accepted or not.
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