1991, Spinner's End.
Ethan staggered through the doorway, a stack of rough, yellowed paper clutched in one arm, his grimy fingers barely gripping a handful of charcoal pencils. He kicked the door shut behind him, the force of the blow rattling the old hinges. With a weary sigh, he carefully set his art supplies on the table before collapsing onto the oil-stained sofa.
The room was a cramped, miserable box. The greyish-white paint on the walls was flaking away, a cabinet held a collection of dented cans, and a lone chair stood precariously on three legs. In the corner, shards of glass from the beer bottles he'd sold earlier glinted in the fading evening light.
His cobalt-blue eyes fixed on the wall, where a single charcoal sketch was pinned. It was a self-portrait, a depiction of the young man he used to be in another life. The drawing was hauntingly lifelike, capturing the cynical glint in the dark eyes, making it seem as if the figure might roar in frustration at any moment.
In that past life, he had been an art student who failed his entrance exams twice, his creative spirit crushed by a rigid system that had no room for imagination. The last thing he remembered was the grille of a speeding truck rushing to meet him.
Fortunately, he'd been an orphan with no one to leave behind. He had awakened here, transmigrated into the body of an eleven-year-old boy scraping by in a slum. The boy's mother was long gone, having found a new life, and his father was a violent alcoholic who hadn't been home in over a month. For all Ethan knew, the man was pushing up daisies somewhere.
Meow.
A pathetic sound escaped his lips, immediately followed by the loud grumbling of his empty stomach. Ethan pulled a soggy sandwich from his pocket, his payment for an afternoon of sketching portraits for strangers. As he gnawed on the tasteless bread, a familiar blue screen shimmered into existence before his eyes:
[Ethan Vincent (11 years old)]
[Soul Integration: 25% (Your connection to this world is unstable, resulting in erratic magic.)]
[Special Skill: Lifelike Imagination Lv. 1 (Your paintings are not masterpieces, but they are unnervingly captivating.)]
[Gallery: None]
Magic.
The word jumped out at him. Ethan had read the Harry Potter books. He wasn't an expert, but he knew the main plot and the key players. Spinner's End—he knew that name. It was where Professor Snape lived. If the system said he had magic, then there was a chance. A chance to go to Hogwarts. A chance to be in the same year as the Boy Who Lived.
For a month, he had dreamed of the owl that had never found him in his past life. This harsh new reality had sanded down his sharp edges, turning his outspoken nature into a quiet, watchful facade. He couldn't stay in Spinner's End, drawing portraits for pocket change until he rotted away. He had to get out. He would use his art to force this decaying world to open its eyes. A defiant spark lit Ethan's eyes.
Crunch.
He took another bite of the sandwich. The waterlogged bread and limp vegetable leaves dissolved in his mouth like a mouthful of mud.
The spark of ambition was promptly extinguished by the grim reality of his meal. "Right," he muttered to himself. "First, figure out how to make some real money."
Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed from the door.
Ethan shot up from the sofa, his body instantly tense. It was already dark; no one paid visits at this hour. Was it the local thugs?
He backed away slowly, his feet silent on the floorboards, his hand reaching for the kitchen knife he kept stashed under the sofa. Years of malnourishment and abuse had left his body frail and thin. He kept what little money he had on him at all times, ready to bolt through the window at the first sign of real trouble.
"I know you're in there, Ethan Vincent," a low, oily voice drawled from the other side of the door, each word slithering under the frame. "And don't even think of escaping through the window like a foolish troll."
Troll?
Ethan froze, his eyes widening. That wasn't a word you heard every day. An image of a man cloaked in black formed in his mind. Could it be… him?
Thump, thump.
His own heart hammered against his ribs. Swallowing hard, Ethan abandoned the window, crossed the room, and pulled the door open.
Looming over him was a man in a black robe, with greasy, shoulder-length hair and a prominent, hooked nose. He looked like a great, scowling bat, his dark eyes boring down into Ethan with a look of profound annoyance.
It was Severus Snape, the Potions Master of Hogwarts.
Ethan nearly blurted out his name but caught himself at the last second. He forced a mask of wary confusion onto his face. "Who are you?"
Professor Snape sneered. "I was unaware the artistic genius of Spinner's End required introductions." He paused, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Severus Snape. Now, may I come in?"
"It's dark, sir," Ethan stammered, trying to block the entrance. "I can't see well enough to paint. If you want a portrait, you'll have to come back tomorrow—"
Before he could finish, Snape swept past him in a flurry of black robes, striding into the center of the room.
Snap!
With a flick of Snape's wrist, the broken lightbulb overhead flared to life, flooding the squalid room with a brilliant white glow. The professor sank onto the sofa, the only piece of furniture that could reliably hold his weight, and gestured impatiently with his chin. A malicious smirk curved his lips.
"Draw."
Ethan hesitated for a second before silently retrieving his drawing pad and pencils. He perched on the three-legged stool.
"What would you like me to draw, sir?" he asked politely.
"Anything," Snape replied, his lips twitching with a strange, mocking energy. "A portrait will do. Aren't you best at those?"
A portrait. Yes, he was good at those. But how could any ordinary portrait make a real impression on this man?
Ethan held the charcoal pencil, his mind racing. An idea sparked, and a flash of red hair and brilliant green eyes entered his thoughts. I've got it. Snape had said "a portrait," but he never specified whose portrait.
A grin touched Ethan's lips as inspiration surged through him. He lowered his pencil to the rough paper and began to sketch.
As he worked, the sounds from the street outside seemed to recede, fading into a distant murmur. Ethan's entire being focused on the image taking shape under his hand. He leaned forward, his body hunched over the pad, completely oblivious to the world around him. His jaw was clenched, and beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. Though he was working from a faint memory, it felt as if the subject were standing right there in front of him. The pencil moved with a life of its own, meticulously tracing every detail, every nuance of her face.
This will be the best thing I've ever drawn, he thought with sudden clarity.
The only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic scratching of charcoal on paper.
Snape watched, his lips pursed. He could feel the magic flowing from the boy, a wild and untamed energy that set his teeth on edge. He was only here to clean up the child's mess. A young wizard, ignorant of his own power, had been openly selling magical artifacts to Muggles. Every painting the boy made was imbued with a sliver of magic, just enough to captivate the owner's mind and hold them spellbound, making them forget to eat or sleep. No wonder the streets had felt so deserted when he arrived.
This was borderline Dark Arts, not to mention a flagrant violation of the International Statute of Secrecy. The thought of the political squabbling this would cause at the Ministry already gave Snape a headache. If Dumbledore hadn't personally vouched for the boy, he'd be on his way to a formal hearing right now.
What truly infuriated Snape was that Dumbledore had sent him to collect the boy simply because he had also grown up in Spinner's End. He could still hear the old man's infuriatingly cheerful voice in his head: A fascinating coincidence, Severus, wouldn't you agree? A vein throbbed in Snape's temple.
He had already decided his course of action. Once he had the drawing in hand, he would tear the boy's work—and his ego—to shreds. Snape had already composed the scathing remarks he would deliver. A cruel, self-satisfied smirk touched his lips, a look that would send a first-year Gryffindor running for the hills. Being back in this place dredged up nothing but filth: the dilapidated furniture, the stench of mold and stale alcohol… It all reminded him of an unbearable childhood and a memory that still ached like an open wound.
"Sir, the painting is done."
The boy's voice snapped Snape out of his reverie. He let out a derisive snort, his mind filled with malice. He snatched the drawing pad from Ethan's hands, a sarcastic retort already on his tongue as he glanced down at the paper.
In the next second, he froze.
It was as if he'd been hit with a Full Body-Bind Curse. He went completely rigid, his eyes widening in disbelief, staring at the portrait on the page.
It was a face that should never have existed on a piece of paper in this room. A secret he had locked away in the deepest recesses of his heart.
Lily Evans.
***
(End of Chapter)
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