HP: The Wizard Who Paints with Magic

Spinner's End.

A familiar blue screen shimmered before Ethan's eyes.

[Your artwork is starting to have a slight impact!]

[Soul Fusion increased!]

[26% → 27%]

With the system's announcement, Ethan felt a surge of warmth pour down from the crown of his head, flowing through his limbs and into his bones, nourishing his body.

"My Soul Fusion has increased again!" Ethan exclaimed in surprise, looking at his palm as if he could see magic bursting forth from within it. On the table lay the latest issues of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet.

"Who said Rita Skeeter isn't a good reporter? She's amazing!" Ethan particularly loved the 'Justice vs. Evil' piece she wrote about him, which had even managed to rope in the celebrity Harry Potter. The wording was perfect—phrases like "covert dark aura," "potentially affecting one's spirit," and "all parties should be vigilant" were so flattering he was almost embarrassed by the praise.

She truly appreciates my art, hehe~ Ethan thought, both shy and proud. To thank her for the article, he had specially drawn a small painting in the same style and sent it to Ms. Skeeter via Luna's owl. He had been eagerly awaiting a reply but instead learned from the newspaper that she had suddenly fallen ill, was bedridden, and had taken a week's leave.

What a pity~

Looking at the system's message, Ethan had a flash of insight. "Could it be that Soul Fusion is related to my fame in this world?" he wondered. "Or, more precisely, my artistic fame?"

It made sense. The last time his Soul Fusion increased was when Snape admired his portrait of Lily. Just one person had increased it by 1%, the same amount as this time.

"The more important the person, the greater the increase… I suppose I'll have to interact with the main characters from the original story," he mused. "Time to give them a little taste of the shock a failed art student can deliver."

Ethan's gaze moved to the newspaper clippings on the wall. In one of the photos, Hogwarts Castle stood on a cliff in the rain, a stunning bolt of lightning streaking across the night sky. The Savior and Hogwarts, huh...

Hehehe, I can't wait.

Ethan licked his lips, sporting a wicked, triumphant grin. After a period of dedicated study, he was just about ready to unveil his first 'Charm + Painting' creation.

Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

Harry Potter, lying on a bed surrounded by broken toys, suddenly sneezed for no reason.

"Ugh, who's thinking about me…" Harry mumbled groggily, turning over. Without access to The Daily Prophet, he had no idea what was happening in the wizarding world. Soon, he peacefully fell back asleep. In his dream, he was riding a flying motorcycle, holding a wand, and soaring through the grounds of Hogwarts.

The world of magic… I can't wait.

September 1st. King's Cross Station, London.

The clock in the hall had only just struck half-past ten, but Ethan was already standing between platforms 9 and 10, a trolley piled high with luggage beside him. The bags and packages seemed to tower over him, and more than one older girl had approached to ask if he needed help.

Ethan politely declined every time. It wasn't because he was stubbornly self-reliant but because all his luggage had the Levitation Charm cast on it. "Wingardium Leviosa." It was the spell he remembered most vividly from the original story, and as a first-year spell, it hadn't been too difficult to master through self-study. He'd even managed to learn a few other basic spells from Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.

It's not that hard, he thought, hands in his pockets, idly stroking his wand. In fact, he had successfully integrated one of those spells into his artwork, creating his first "Blue Precious" tier painting—a level higher than "White Rare."

Pushing the deceptively light luggage, Ethan took a deep breath in front of the brick wall and charged right through.

"Whoosh!"

A brief moment of darkness, a cold whistling sound in his ears, and then sunlight and clamor surged toward him like a tide.

"Wooooo—"

The train puffed out thick white steam, and the smell of coal smoke mixed with pumpkin pie wafted into his nostrils. Ethan opened his eyes. What greeted him was a cast-iron sign hanging from a platform archway: Platform 9 ¾.

Owls of every description flapped through the air. A deep red steam train gleamed on the tracks, sunlight glinting off its polished body. Because Ethan had arrived early, the platform wasn't yet crowded. Children his age ran past, playing and shouting; older students gathered in clumps, recounting their summer adventures; and parents stood by, repeatedly giving last-minute instructions and tearful farewells.

An ineffable sense of emotion welled up in Ethan's heart. It was as if, in this moment, he had truly arrived in the world of magic. He looked back and saw the faint, shimmering ripples of the barrier that connected to the Muggle world.

Home is behind, the world ahead!

Just as Ethan was lost in the moment, a lazy, drawn-out voice sounded from behind him.

"Oh, you're the one who draws those illustrations for The Quibbler, aren't you?"

Ethan turned and saw a shock of platinum-blond hair and a face set in a permanent sneer.

Draco Malfoy.

Another main character. Maybe he could help increase his Soul Fusion. Thinking this, Ethan offered a slight, charming smile.

"Yes, that's me, Ethan Vincent. I didn't expect to be so famous already, it's quite embarrassing~" Ethan covered his mouth delicately, looking very shy.

Malfoy stared. "..." How could there be someone even more narcissistic than him?!

"Heh, you're overthinking it," Malfoy sneered, pulling up one side of his mouth. "I only know you because your arrest warrant was hanging in the Ministry of Magic for a long time. My father, Lucius, happens to have some connections there and knows a bit of inside information."

As he spoke, Malfoy proudly puffed out his chest, looking down his nose at Ethan. "If Dumbledore hadn't protected you, you would have been arrested long ago. But I've seen your paintings. There's nothing special about them. They're just… ordinary."

"..."

Ethan narrowed his eyes. You can insult my character, but you cannot insult my paintings.

His smile grew even more amiable. "You have a booger in your nostril," he said politely.

"?!"

Malfoy instantly snapped his head down, clapping a hand over his nose as his pale face flushed crimson. He was trapped. What if Ethan was tricking him? But what if there really was a little 'snack' in his nose? Was he supposed to dig it out on the spot? The noble Malfoy would never perform such a vulgar act!

Malfoy fumed. "You filthy Mud—"

Before he could finish, Ethan suddenly extended his hand, interrupting the slur. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Draco Malfoy. I've heard so much about you."

"..."

Malfoy froze, staring blankly at Ethan's offered hand as if he were looking at a pure-blood troll. Could it be a trap? But he stared for a long time and couldn't see anything suspicious about the hand, which was stained with a little paint.

Heh heh, as expected. He still succumbs to the great name of Malfoy, Draco thought, his confidence returning. How else would he know my name if not for long-standing admiration? I haven't even introduced myself!

In truth, his father, Lucius, had advised him to approach the boy. Besides Harry Potter, the "evil artist" was another person of interest. "Able to draw paintings imbued with magic… this eleven-year-old child has some value," his father's arrogant voice echoed in his ears.

"Hmph. Consider yourself sensible, knowing who is truly worth befriending," Malfoy curled his lip. One hand still covering his nose, he lowered the other and grasped Ethan's outstretched hand.

The moment their palms touched, Malfoy's skin suddenly tingled, as if pricked by countless fine needles. An itching sensation followed, like ants gnawing at his flesh.

Hm?

Malfoy frowned, inadvertently looking up. His gaze met Ethan's cobalt-blue eyes.

Ethan Vincent—the young wizard who had shaken The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet with his dark artwork and twice appeared on the Ministry of Magic's watch list—was staring at him with a cold, pleased smile, like a doctor looking down at a white mouse on an operating table.

***

(End of Chapter)

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