A few seconds ticked by in silence.
Quirrell, still shaken, gingerly rose from the cold stone floor and slumped into the chair Ethan had summoned with a casual flick of his wand, a perfectly executed Levitation Charm. Quirrell forced a smile, but it twisted into something more akin to a grimace, his face betraying his defeat. He was utterly subdued, tamed by Ethan's relentless presence.
How pitiful.
The faint glow from the chandelier above bathed Quirrell in a harsh light, stripping away any semblance of his professorial dignity. He looked less like a teacher and more like a prisoner awaiting judgment, his spirit drained, his face pale and hollow.
"Ethan," Quirrell muttered under his breath, "you don't belong at Hogwarts. You belong in Nurmengard, locked away with the worst of them. Right next to the first Dark Lord himself!"
…
"—Their foreheads were flat, almost without eyelids, and even on dry land, their mouths gaped wide, gasping as though starved for air."
"On either side of their necks, layers of skin folded over each other, like the gills of some grotesque fish."
Ethan leaned forward, his voice dripping with enthusiasm. "This information comes from The Innsmouth Diary Manuscript. These traits suggest a twisted evolution of humanity, yet they're steeped in degeneration. Don't you find that fascinating, Professor Quirrell?"
Quirrell was beyond overwhelmed. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot veins creeping into the whites, his mind buzzing with static. This was mental torture—pure, unadulterated mental pollution. How in Merlin's name had this young wizard stumbled upon such cursed tomes? Perhaps evil drew evil, like moths to a flame.
Dong—dong—dong—
A low, resonant bell tolled outside the window, its sound heavy and lingering, as though it had pierced an invisible veil. Quirrell jolted, snapped out of his daze.
Ethan waved his wand lazily, and golden dust swirled in the air, forming the time: 12:01.
"Oh, dear me," Ethan said with a soft chuckle, his tone deceptively light. "Midnight already, time slips away so fast. I've gained quite a bit tonight, so let's call it a day, Professor Quirrell."
"Y-Yes, yes…!" Quirrell stammered, practically leaping from his chair as if granted a reprieve from Azkaban. He tugged at the corners of his mouth in a feeble attempt at a smile and stumbled toward the door, his retreating figure radiating desperation.
"Oh, one more thing," Ethan's voice called out, sharp and chilling, cutting through the air like a hex.
Quirrell froze, turning slowly, dread pooling in his gut. In the dim classroom, the lights had gone out, leaving only the moonlight streaming through the window to trace Ethan Vincent's silhouette. The upper half of his face was cloaked in shadow, revealing only his sharp, pale jaw and those perfectly curved lips as they parted to speak.
"Don't forget to prepare the materials I mentioned, Professor Quirrell," Ethan said smoothly. "Since it's a sizable order, I'll have Professor Dumbledore assist you in contacting suppliers. You might even get a discount."
At the mention of Dumbledore's name, Quirrell's heart sank like a stone. He stared at Ethan, sweat beading on his brow, unable to read the boy's expression in the darkness. For a fleeting moment, Quirrell wondered if Ethan knew everything—his secret, his connection to Lord Voldemort. Was this a veiled threat?
No, impossible. Ethan was just a first-year, his head stuffed with those blasphemous, nightmarish paintings. How could he know about him? He was probably just obsessed with his grotesque art and trying to exploit Quirrell's position. Yet, bound by his master's orders, Quirrell couldn't resist. With Dumbledore watching over Hogwarts, he couldn't afford to act recklessly. Half a term had passed, and he still hadn't found a way to steal the Philosopher's Stone. For now, he had to endure this wretched school.
Gritting his teeth, Quirrell forced a smile. "V-Very well, Mr. Vincent. I'll… leave it to you."
Without another glance, he turned and fled, his forced smile vanishing the moment his back was to Ethan, replaced by a seething resentment. Ethan Vincent, he thought venomously, once I've drained your talent or my master tires of you, I'll make your life a living hell.
Watching Quirrell's clumsy retreat, Ethan let out a satisfied sigh. There was something uniquely gratifying about discussing his macabre aesthetic with a dark wizard like Quirrell. No need to worry about breaking the man's mind—it was already fractured.
Ethan's invocation of Dumbledore's name wasn't just to torment Quirrell (though that was a delightful bonus). It was to ensure the materials for his Living Paintings were sourced through legitimate channels. Poaching was beneath him, after all. Ethan smirked, mentally patting himself on the back for his thoughtfulness. Another day of doing good deeds! He was practically a saint, wasn't he? A beacon of pure, untainted virtue!
Just then, a line of glowing blue text materialized before his eyes:
You absorb knowledge ravenously, as a shadow consumes light. You are close to advancement.
You have gained [Erudition].
Your speed in learning spells and acquiring knowledge has increased.
When [Erudition] reaches a certain threshold, you will unlock a new skill, aiding you in the rituals required for creating Living Paintings.
It was as if dawn had broken, rays of sunlight slicing through a misty sky. Ethan's mind sharpened, expanding with newfound clarity. Spells he'd studied before resurfaced in his memory, their intricate patterns now vivid and precise.
With a flick of his wand, he murmured, "Disillusionment Charm."
Whoosh—
A sensation like cold, syrupy liquid poured over him. Ethan watched, wide-eyed, as his body began to fade, blending seamlessly with the background, his clothes and skin taking on the texture of the stone wall behind him.
It worked!
His pupils contracted with excitement. He remembered the Disillusionment Charm that Sean had used to outmaneuver him during tryouts. Other students might shrug and say, I'm just a first-year, it's fine not to know. But Ethan refused to accept that excuse. In the upcoming Quidditch competition, no one would go easy on him just because he was younger. If anything, they'd target him first, assuming he was an easy mark.
Ethan feared no challenge. He refused to be lesser than anyone. He would charge forward, proving with his strength exactly what kind of opponent stood before them.
He'd been practicing the Disillusionment Charm in secret, seeking guidance from Professor Flitwick, but success had eluded him—until now. Staring at his transparent form, Ethan's heart swelled with triumph. For the first time, he'd cast the spell perfectly, and the [Erudition] entry had illuminated the parts he'd struggled to grasp.
This was the power of [Erudition]! If he could push it further and unlock a new skill, how much stronger could he become? His mind raced with possibilities.
Distracted by his excitement, the charm faltered, and his body reappeared. "Still needs practice," Ethan muttered, but the grin on his face betrayed his satisfaction.
Just as he knew the theory behind Living Paintings but needed hands-on experience, mastery required effort. The system wasn't here to live his life for him. Everything I've achieved, Ethan thought, is because of my own hard work.
Quirrell, you owe me.
…
That night, in the haze of a dream, Ethan heard a voice—faint, distant, yet laced with an unshakable arrogance, as though it belonged to someone who had once ruled over countless souls.
"Ethan Vincent… wake up. I need you… Ethan Vincent…"
It was a hoarse, seductive female voice.
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