Spinner's End.
[Your painting is starting to gain a bit of influence!]
[Soul‑integration increased!]
26 % → 27 %
At the system's announcement, a warm rush poured from Ethan's head down through his limbs, nourishing every vein.
"My soul‑integration went up again!"
Delighted, he opened and closed his hand, half expecting sparks of magic to flare in his palm.
On the table lay the latest issues of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet.
"Who says Rita Skeeter is awful? Miss Skeeter is simply wonderful!"
He was especially fond of her article "Justice vs. Evil," which even dragged the famous Harry Potter into the headline.
The wording was perfect— phrases like "a hidden aura of darkness," "possible effects on the mind," and "all parties should remain vigilant" almost made Ethan blush.
"She must really appreciate my art," he thought with shy pride.
To thank her he had painted a small picture in the same unsettling style and—using Luna's family owl—sent it straight to Miss Skeeter.
He had been waiting eagerly for a reply.
Instead, the paper reported that Rita Skeeter had fallen mysteriously ill and would be off work for a week.
A pity…
Now, staring at the words "soul‑integration increased," Ethan's mind flashed with a new theory.
"Could it be that my soul‑integration is tied to how well‑known I am in this world—more precisely, how famous my art is?"
It fit: the last time his integration rose was when Snape had gazed at the portrait of Lily, and Snape alone had raised it by a full percent—exactly like this time.
"So the more important the viewer, the bigger the boost… Looks like I need to meet more of the main characters."
"Time to give them all a taste of what a twice‑rejected art student can do."
His eyes drifted to a newspaper clipping tacked to the wall: Hogwarts Castle stood on a storm‑lashed cliff, a jagged bolt of lightning splitting the night.
The Savior and Hogwarts…
He licked his lips and smiled the smile of a man with a plan.
After weeks of study, he had almost completed his first true "spell‑plus‑painting" work.
....
Surrey, Little Whinging, 4 Privet Drive.
Harry Potter lay on his bed, surrounded by broken toys, when a sudden sneeze hit him.
"Mm, someone talking about me…" he mumbled, rolling over. He had no Daily Prophet and no idea what was brewing, so he soon drifted back into a dream—soaring over Hogwarts on a flying motorbike, wand held high.
The magical world could not come soon enough.
.......
1 September – King's Cross Station, London
The station clock had only just reached half past ten when Ethan, hauling a mountain of luggage, stood between Platforms 9 and 10.
If he'd been catching a plane, he probably would have arrived hours early.
Several kindly ladies offered help, but he politely declined: every trunk was under a Levitation Charm.
"Wingardium Le‑vio‑SA."
The very first spell lesson in every beginner book—and easy enough to learn by himself. In fact, he had already mastered most of the basic charms in the opening chapters of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One.
Not so hard after all, he mused, fingers brushing the wand in his pocket.
One of those charms was now woven into a new painting—his first "blue uncommon" card, one level above "white rare."
Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the feather‑light trolley straight into the brick barrier.
Whoosh!
A moment of darkness, a rush of cold wind—
—and then sunlight and noise crashed over him.
The scarlet steam engine hissed; coal smoke tangled with the scent of pumpkin pasties. Overhead, owls fluttered, shrieking and hooting. The wrought‑iron sign read:
Platform 9¾
Because he was early, the platform was still quiet. Children darted past, older students compared holiday adventures, parents fussed and hugged their farewells.
Emotion swelled in Ethan's chest. Here, at last, he truly felt he had entered the wizarding world. Behind him the shimmer of the barrier linked back to the Muggle realm—
Home behind, the world ahead.
While he stood soaking in the moment, a languid drawl sounded behind him:
"Oh, so you're the one who draws for The Quibbler, aren't you?"
A blond boy with a smirking face: Draco Malfoy.
Another main character—perfect for boosting soul‑integration.
Ethan smiled.
"That's me. Ethan Vincent. I had no idea I was already so famous—how embarrassing."
He covered his mouth like a bashful poet.
Malfoy blinked.
How could anyone be more conceited than he was?
"Heh. Don't flatter yourself."
Rolling his eyes, Draco curled his lip.
"I only know you because your arrest warrant was on the Ministry board for ages. My father has connections, you see—inside information."
He puffed out his chest and eyed Ethan down his nose.
"If Dumbledore hadn't protected you, you'd be locked up already. And frankly, I saw your painting. Nothing special. Quite ordinary."
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
Insult his character if you must, but never his art.
His pleasant smile widened.
"You have a bit of something in your nose."
What?!
Draco clapped a hand over his nostrils, pale face flushing crimson.
Was the boy joking? But what if—horror of horrors—there really was something there? A Malfoy would never pick his nose in public.
Furious, he opened his mouth: "You filthy Mud—"
Ethan raised a hand, cutting him off.
"A pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy. I've heard so much about you."
Draco froze, staring as though Ethan were a genuine mountain troll. A trap? Yet nothing seemed amiss with that paint‑stained hand.
Well—of course. Naturally people had heard of the Malfoys. He had not even introduced himself, after all.
Remembering his father's advice—to make useful contacts besides the Boy Who Lived—Draco relaxed and extended his hand, still shielding his nose with the other.
"Humph. At least you know whom it's worth befriending."
Their palms met.
A sudden prickling pain jabbed Draco's skin, followed by an itching, ant‑bite tingle.
He frowned and looked up—straight into Ethan's cobalt eyes.
Ethan Vincent.
The morbid young artist whose work had exploded across The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet, twice landing him on the Ministry's watch list.