HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 312

Chapter 312: Removing the “Magic Limiter”! A Gaze from Beyond the Sky!

Voldemort could not comprehend it.

The person standing before him, the man beneath that unfathomable plain white mask, was Ethan Vincent.

The nightmare carved into his soul, the terror that should never have become real, had stepped out of darkness and into the world.

No. If not for the unimaginable agony tearing through him, Voldemort would have suspected this was nothing more than an illusion.

“How can you be Mr Lamp…? That’s impossible!” Voldemort howled, forcing every shred of himself into the scream. “When did you start planning all of this? When?!”

Rage and shock twisted together. He tried to look to his subordinate, Barty, as if the answer might be there, as if loyalty might still exist somewhere in this farce.

But all he saw was the truth.

With the illusion stripped away, Barty’s genuine state was exposed, that vacant, broken, monstrous look. And Voldemort could feel it too, his own flesh melting, the accumulated darkness he had hoarded over the years being squeezed out of him, drained and stolen.

What had his resurrection ritual been turned into?

Even Voldemort, who had studied Dark magic more deeply than most wizards dared, felt a tremor of fear.

And worse than the pain was the realisation that he had been caught, long ago, in a net he never saw. A web woven by that damned madman, Ethan Vincent.

Ethan’s mouth curled behind the firelight. “From the very beginning.”

Then he sighed, as if genuinely burdened. “Honestly, I’m so bright and righteous. I radiate kindness from the inside out.”

He sounded almost wounded as he went on. “It’s all been that obvious, and you still didn’t notice.”

“That only proves you’re too… well, you know.”

A few casual words.

Yet the damage they did to Voldemort’s pride was worse than the ritual itself.

“Bright and righteous”? “Kindness”?

“By whose standards?”

Voldemort nearly vomited blood.

The reason he had trusted Mr Lamp so completely was simple. Voldemort had sensed the darkness inside him, that ravenous force that craved slaughter and wanted the world to chant his name. None of it had felt like lies.

Hadn’t the Quidditch World Cup attack during the summer been proof enough?

So how had the man who reeked of darkness become some “new Saviour of the Light” in the blink of an eye?

As though he could hear Voldemort’s thoughts, Ethan gave a sheepish little chuckle. “I had fun back then too.”

He sounded almost shy. “Sharing one’s beautiful art with the public is… embarrassing, you know.”

“You… you…!” Voldemort spat out a mouthful of filthy blood.

He was so furious it almost numbed the pain.

Never, in all his existence, had he met someone so shameless.

If the Light had people like this, then truly, the wizarding world was blessed beyond measure.

“Dumbledore…” Voldemort rasped, voice cracking with hatred. “Was this your plan? To swallow darkness with something even more vile?!”

“How despicable!”

For the first time in his life, Voldemort, a Dark wizard through and through, found himself thinking the “Light side” was utterly deranged.

Snap.

Ethan clicked his fingers.

The crisp sound yanked Voldemort’s focus back like a hook through the mind.

“All right,” Ethan said pleasantly. “That’s enough chatting.”

His handsome face glowed with warmth in the firelight, almost gentle, like a spring breeze.

“Just become my nourishment and go quietly.”

The moment the words fell, the flames surged.

Voldemort’s pupils contracted. He felt his soul being ground down like grain between millstones, crushed into fragments, torn apart piece by piece. He screamed at the night like a wrathful spirit, eyes splitting with fury.

“No!”

He refused.

He refused to accept that thirteen years of plotting and waiting, thirteen years of crawling towards resurrection, could be destroyed by some arrogant boy.

Worse, he was becoming that boy’s fuel.

No. It could not end like this.

It would not.

And then.

The false night sky of this space cracked open with a sharp snap, a fracture splitting across it.

Voldemort froze.

A presence looked down.

A gaze so supreme it seemed to erase sound itself.

The noise of the world retreated like a tide.

A moment later, Voldemort’s ruined face twisted into a smile so mad it barely looked human.

Of course.

Fate was on his side.

Even if it demanded a price, he would never let Ethan leave this place alive.

A cold, emotionless notice appeared, as if the world itself were confirming the outcome.

[Congratulations!]
[The Soul Cauldron ritual has succeeded.]
[You have obtained: Potion x1.]

Points of light drifted out of the fading pillar of flame. In Ethan’s hand, they gathered into a pale blue liquid the size of an infant’s fist, like mist wrapped around crushed diamonds. It was beautiful. It was alive with magic.

Ethan produced a small vial he had clearly prepared in advance and poured the liquid in without hesitation. It flowed at the bottom like mercury, never clinging to the glass, never separating.

“This is it,” he murmured. “Win or lose, it’s all on this.”

Then he tipped his head back and drank it in one go.

Instantly, something inside him thundered, as a war drum struck deep in his bones.

His blood boiled in an instant.

Hot.
So hot.

It was like molten lava pouring down his throat, flooding every vein and nerve.

“Mm!”

The heat tore through him from the inside out—a pain that seemed to reach straight into his soul.

“Urgh!” Ethan growled, clawing at his clothes. Veins stood out along his neck, and the deep blue of his eyes flared to gold, as if the fire had lit them from within.

It was like the ground beneath him had split—one long rupture of pain, and then awakening.

And from every fissure, magic erupted in a limitless surge.

[You have successfully absorbed the potion’s effects.]
[Magic power has increased significantly!]
[One “Immortal” advancement condition has been met.]

Light burst forth.

Golden light.

It flooded the graveyard, painted the oppressive clouds above with a wash of gold, and turned the darkness into something almost unreal.

Not far away, Harry stared in shock.

From his angle, Mr Lamp still wore the plain white mask. Harry had no idea what was happening, but he could feel it, the sheer mass of magic pouring off that figure.

Too strong.

Far, far too strong.

Like a storm front rolling in, tearing through everything in its path.

Tombstones cracked and shattered under the pressure.

Crack.

Harry heard a sharp snap by his ear. Then the crushing grip at his throat vanished, and he fell to the ground, gasping.

The surge of magic had destroyed the stone scythe that had pinned him.

Harry did not waste a second.

He lunged to Cedric’s side, then snapped his wand towards the Triwizard Cup and shouted, “Accio Cup!”

If the Cup was a Portkey, he could take them back to Hogwarts. He had to.

But when Harry’s hand touched the cup, nothing happened.

“Damn it, why isn’t it working?!” Harry fumbled with it desperately, panic making his fingers clumsy. The beautiful blue surface reflected his own frantic face, distorted by fear.

“At least… at least I have to bring Cedric back…”

Then Harry froze.

Thump. Thump.

He stared at Cedric’s limp body, his grey, dead-looking face, and pressed his hand to Cedric’s chest.

A weak heartbeat answered him.

Cedric was alive.

Meanwhile, Ethan sank into the sensation of overflowing magic and half-closed his eyes, blissful, as if soaking in a hot spring. Every part of him felt clear, open, and weightless.

He opened his hand.

Golden birds flowed out, one after another, circling him with bright cries, their bodies made of pure light.

“So strong,” Ethan whispered, eyes glittering, his irises returning from gold to that familiar deep blue. “I feel like I could summon ‘Colour Out of Space’ for an entire day now. Is this what it feels like to remove the magic limiter?”

He smiled, and his voice softened with amusement. “If Luna saw this, she’d probably start bouncing around like an excited little rabbit again.”

Ethan clenched his fist, watching the glow of his own magic spill between his fingers.

Then, without warning, his nerves tightened.

He snapped his head up, sensing something, and stared at the night sky.

The fractured crack in the false sky reflected in his eyes.

And from within it, slowly turning into view, came a massive eyeball.