"BANG!"
The sound of Snape surging to his feet was like a gunshot in the silent room.
Ethan nearly fell off his three-legged stool in surprise. His heart jumped into his throat as he watched the Potions Professor stand there, rigid as a statue, clutching the sketch pad with both hands like it might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.
Snape's face had gone completely white. All the color had drained from his sallow cheeks, leaving him looking almost corpse-like in the harsh light of the repaired bulb. His dark eyes were locked onto the drawing with an intensity that was genuinely frightening—wide and unblinking, pupils dilated like he was staring at something that shouldn't exist.
He looked terrified. Actually, genuinely terrified.
But at the same time—and this was the weird part—there was something else in his expression. Something softer. Like he was looking at the most precious thing in the entire world and couldn't quite believe it was real.
It was like watching someone come face-to-face with a terrible curse and the sweetest dessert imaginable at the exact same time.
Ethan swallowed nervously, suddenly wondering if maybe he'd made a huge mistake. Professor Snape looked like he was about two seconds away from either having a breakdown or cursing Ethan into next week, and honestly it could go either way.
On the paper, Lily Evans smiled up at them both.
Her hair—rendered in varying shades of charcoal, but somehow you could still tell it was that distinctive red—flowed around her face in gentle waves. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and warmth, even though they were just pencil marks on yellowed paper. And her smile... god, her smile was radiant. Like sunshine breaking through clouds. Like everything good and bright and hopeful in the world, captured in the curve of her lips.
It was just a black and white portrait, simple charcoal on rough paper.
But Snape was seeing more than that.
Ethan could tell. Could see it in the way the Professor's hands trembled, in the way his breathing had gone shallow and quick.
Snape wasn't just seeing the drawing. He was seeing her. The real her. The living, breathing, laughing girl he'd known as a child. He was hearing her voice calling his name in that way she used to, that specific intonation that nobody else had ever quite matched.
"Severus~!"
That silvery, musical laugh. Those bright green eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine affection. The way her hair caught the light like fire.
All of it, somehow, impossibly, contained in this single drawing by a kid who'd never even met her.
Lifelike didn't even begin to cover it.
For a long moment, Snape just stood there, frozen, lost in whatever memories the portrait had dragged up from the depths of his mind. His usual mask of sarcastic contempt had completely shattered, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable and painful to witness.
Then, abruptly, he seemed to snap back to himself.
His expression hardened. His jaw clenched. He jerked the drawing away from his face like it had burned him, holding it at arm's length with one hand raised as if to—
To what? Tear it apart? Set it on fire?
Ethan's breath caught. Oh shit, oh shit, he'd miscalculated, this was bad—
But Snape's raised hand hesitated. Wavered. Then slowly, carefully, almost tenderly, he lowered the sketch pad and clutched it against his chest instead.
He stood there breathing hard, looking furious and devastated and confused all at once.
Damn it.
Now Snape understood. Now he got it. This was why those Muggles in Spider's End had been so completely entranced by this boy's artwork, staring at their portraits for hours on end without eating or sleeping.
This wasn't just good art. This wasn't even just magically enhanced art.
This was something else entirely. Something dangerous.
The devil's artwork, if such a thing existed.
Each piece didn't just capture a person's likeness—it somehow reached into the viewer's soul and dragged out their deepest feelings, their most precious memories, and forced them to confront it all whether they wanted to or not.
"So, sir?"
Ethan's voice broke the heavy silence. He was trying to sound casual, confident, but there was a slight tremor underneath that betrayed his nerves.
Still, he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Are you satisfied?"
Snape's head snapped up. His dark eyes—still slightly wild, still not quite recovered—fixed on Ethan with laser focus.
When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, each word carefully enunciated like he was fighting to maintain control.
"How..." He paused, swallowed. "How did you... know about this person?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications.
Because yeah, that was the thing, wasn't it? How the hell would some random street kid from Spider's End know what Lily Evans looked like? She'd been dead for almost ten years. There were no photographs of her hanging around the neighborhood. No reason Ethan should have ever seen her face.
And yet he'd drawn her perfectly. Not just accurately—perfectly. In a way that captured not just her appearance but her very essence.
It should have been impossible.
Ethan had prepared for this question, though. Had thought about what he'd say if Snape asked.
He shrugged, affecting a casualness he didn't quite feel, and tilted his head with a half-smile. "You gave me the image, sir. The idea. I just... drew what I felt from you. What you were thinking about, maybe? I don't know, it just came to me while I was working."
It was bullshit, of course. Total bullshit. But it was the kind of mystical artist bullshit that people actually bought sometimes. Oh, I just channeled the energy in the room. I painted what my muse whispered to me. I'm just a vessel for the art, man.
That kind of thing.
Ethan was gambling that Snape wouldn't push too hard on the explanation. That he'd be too emotionally compromised by the portrait itself to really interrogate the logistics of how it came to be.
And besides, Ethan was in an absolutely fantastic mood right now.
Because holy shit, it had worked.
His gamble had paid off spectacularly. Professor Snape—the famously stern, harsh, impossible-to-impress Potions Master—was standing there clutching that drawing like it was the most valuable thing he'd ever owned.
Look how much he loves it!
The thought made Ethan want to laugh out loud, but he managed to keep it contained. Barely.
And then, like magic—well, like actual magic, not a metaphor—the system screen flickered into existence in front of Ethan's eyes.
The translucent blue text was only visible to him, thank god. Snape couldn't see it, couldn't see the satisfied grin that Ethan was fighting to keep off his face as he read the notifications scrolling past.
[An exceptionally high-quality painting has been detected and automatically added to the gallery]
Name: "Always" (Gifted)
[Type: Portrait]
[Rank: Tier 1, White Rare]
[Description: A portrait of a deceased loved one. A love that lasted a lifetime.]
[Effect: Powerfully evokes memories, creating an immersive experience. When given as a gift, permanently increases favorability with the recipient.]
This painting can be viewed on your gallery wall.
[Current Gallery Collection: 1 painting]
[Collect 5 paintings to receive a Beginner's Gift Package]
[Soul Integration Level increased by 1%]
[Current Soul Integration Level: 26%]
The moment the notification about soul integration appeared, Ethan felt it.
It was like a warm current of water flowing through his body, starting from his core and spreading outward through his limbs. Like being cold—really, bone-deep cold—and then suddenly sipping hot soup that warmed you from the inside out.
And with that warmth came awareness.
Ethan suddenly realized just how stiff everything had been before. The magic inside him—the power that let him create these impossibly lifelike drawings—it had been sluggish. Constrained. Like trying to run through waist-deep water or breathe through a straw.
But now? Now it flowed just a little bit easier. Just a little bit smoother.
One percent didn't sound like much. But Ethan could feel the difference. Could sense that his next painting would come more naturally, that the magic would respond more readily to his intentions.
So this is what increased soul integration does...
But what caused the increase? What was the trigger?
Ethan's eyes flicked back to Professor Snape, who was still standing there holding the portrait, his expression unreadable.
Maybe... maybe it has to do with interacting with important people from this world?
That would make sense, actually. In the original story, Snape was a major character. One of the most important figures in the entire plot. If Ethan's "soul integration" was about becoming truly connected to this reality, then yeah, making meaningful contact with someone like that might help.
The system said he needed to reach higher integration levels to stabilize his magic. And based on this experience, the way to do that was probably...
Creating significant artwork. Paintings that mattered. That had real impact on the people who saw them.
Which meant he needed to get to Hogwarts. Needed to meet more of the main characters, create more meaningful pieces, forge real connections.
That's... actually really exciting.
Ethan felt a grin tugging at his lips. His tongue darted out unconsciously, running along the back of his teeth as his mind raced with possibilities.
Hogwarts. A school full of important people. Harry Potter himself. Dumbledore. McGonagall. All the future heroes and villains of the story.
So many opportunities.
"...Originally," Snape's voice cut through Ethan's thoughts like a knife, "I was planning to report your... situation... to the Ministry of Magic. Or perhaps to Dumbledore directly."
Ethan's attention snapped back to the present. His heart skipped a beat. Wait, what?
But Snape wasn't looking at him. The Professor was staring down at the portrait in his hands, his expression distant, almost thoughtful.
"But then I thought..." Snape's lips curled into something that might have been a smile, if smiles could be bitter and sad and complicated all at once. "What does any of that have to do with me?"
He reached into his robes—which apparently had pockets, because magic—and pulled out an envelope. Thick parchment, official-looking, with a wax seal that gleamed in the light.
With a swift, almost careless gesture, Snape held it out to Ethan.
"I'm just here to deliver a letter," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "That's all."
Oh, wow.
Oh, that's beautiful.
Ethan had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
Because what Snape had just done—what he'd just described in the most elegant, understated way possible—was accept a bribe. A straight-up, no-questions-asked, quid-pro-quo bribe.
Give me that incredible portrait of the love of my life, and I'll "forget" to report you for magical violations.
Ethan made a small clicking sound with his tongue, half-admiration and half-amusement, as he reached out and took the envelope from Snape's outstretched hand.
The envelope was heavy. Quality parchment, the expensive kind. And pressed into the red wax seal was a very distinctive crest: a shield with a capital "H" in the center, surrounded by four animals—a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle.
Ethan's heart practically stopped.
Holy shit.
This is it.
This is actually it!
His Hogwarts acceptance letter. His ticket out of Spider's End, out of poverty, out of obscurity. His chance to actually do something with this second life.
His hands were shaking slightly as he carefully broke the seal—making sure not to damage the beautiful wax impression, because come on, this was historic—and pulled out the thick parchment inside.
The paper was cream-colored and expensive-feeling, with elegant calligraphy written in emerald green ink.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Vincent:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. Given your particular circumstances, a staff member will be assigned to assist you and provide important information before the start of term.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Ethan read the letter three times, just to make sure it was real. That the words wouldn't suddenly rearrange themselves or disappear like some cruel prank.
But no. It stayed the same. Official. Real. His.
The second page was a detailed list of required textbooks and supplies—everything from a wand to robes to a cauldron to various books with titles like The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) and A History of Magic.
This was really happening.
While Ethan was still processing this—still trying to wrap his mind around the reality that he was going to Hogwarts, that he was going to learn actual magic—Snape launched into what could only be described as an incredibly reluctant lecture.
He explained, in terse, clipped sentences that made it very clear he didn't particularly want to be doing this, the absolute basics of the wizarding world.
What Muggles were. (Non-magical people, keep magic secret from them, very important, don't be stupid about it.)
What Hogwarts was. (A school. For magic. Obviously.)
The four houses. (Gryffindor for the reckless idiots, Hufflepuff for the... well, Snape just sort of dismissed them with a wave, Ravenclaw for the bookish types, and Slytherin for the ambitious and cunning—this last one delivered with a pointed look that suggested Ethan better end up there or else.)
How the wizarding economy worked. (Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Conversion rates. Don't get cheated.)
Where to buy supplies. (Diagon Alley, accessed through the Leaky Cauldron pub.)
Despite his obvious reluctance—Snape looked like every word was being physically dragged out of him—he was actually pretty thorough. Maybe it was because of the portrait. Maybe Ethan had bought himself a tiny sliver of goodwill with that drawing of Lily.
Or maybe, just maybe, some small part of Severus Snape remembered being an eleven-year-old kid from Spider's End who'd needed help navigating this strange new world, and couldn't quite bring himself to leave Ethan completely in the dark.
Whatever the reason, Ethan listened carefully, filing away every piece of information.
Then Snape's expression darkened, and his tone became sharp and cutting once more.
"I must remind you," he said, enunciating each word with precision, "that your actions have been in direct violation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Specifically, the clause regarding the display of magic in front of Muggles."
He practically spat the next words. "Those stupid paintings of yours."
"Before the school year even begins, you've forced the Ministry to dispatch multiple employees to Spider's End. They've had to modify memories, confiscate evidence, and convince dozens of Muggles to move away from those... those cursed artworks you've been peddling."
Snape's lip curled in disgust. "They're currently in the process of tracking down and destroying every single piece of your magical contraband. Every sketch, every portrait, every scrap of enchanted paper you've created."
Ethan blinked innocently. Then, because he apparently had a death wish, he asked:
"Destroying them? All of them? Even the one I just drew for you, Professor Snape?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Snape's eye twitched. Actually twitched, like a muscle spasm.
He stared at Ethan with an expression that was equal parts fury and grudging respect—like he couldn't quite decide whether to curse the kid or acknowledge that that was actually a pretty clever comeback.
His dark eyes narrowed dangerously, examining Ethan's face with intense scrutiny, as if trying to determine whether that question had been genuine innocence or calculated insolence.
Ethan kept his expression perfectly neutral and curious, like he'd just asked about the weather.
Finally, Snape spoke, his voice dropping to a low, hissing whisper that made him sound exactly like the snake his house was named after.
"If you end up in my house—in Slytherin—I will make it my personal mission to give you... special attention."
The way he said "special attention" made it sound like a threat of creative and prolonged torture.
Ethan tried very hard not to smile. He was pretty sure he failed.
With a sharp gesture, Snape waved his hand, and suddenly a cloth bag appeared on the table with a heavy thunk and the musical jingle of coins shifting inside.
Next to it materialized a train ticket, printed on thick cardstock that looked official and important.
"Hogwarts provides a stipend for students in financial need," Snape said, his tone suggesting he found this policy deeply annoying. "It's not a fortune, but if you're not a complete idiot about money, it should last you a while."
He straightened his robes with a dramatic sweep. "I've told you everything you need to know before term starts. And I have faith that you—the genius young artist of Spider's End Alley—can manage to find your way to Diagon Alley and purchase your supplies without adult supervision."
"I can," Ethan said, nodding. The smile that spread across his face was genuine this time, warm and grateful. "Thank you for coming, Professor Snape. Really."
Snape made a sharp, dismissive sound through his nose—something between a snort and a scoff.
He turned away from Ethan and walked over to the empty cabinet against the wall, the one with the missing door. His long fingers trailed across the dusty surface almost absently, like he was inspecting it for... something. Ethan wasn't quite sure what.
Then, without another word, without even a goodbye, Snape swept toward the door. His black robes billowed behind him dramatically—the man clearly had practice with the whole "dramatic exit" thing—making him look exactly like a giant bat taking flight.
He reached the doorway, stepped through, and simply... vanished into the darkness outside.
Gone, like he'd never been there at all.
Ethan stood there for a moment, just staring at the empty doorway, then pushed it closed with a soft click.
He let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
His fingers clutched the acceptance letter tightly, the parchment crinkling slightly under the pressure. For a second, everything that had just happened felt surreal, like maybe he'd fallen asleep on the couch and this had all been some vivid dream.
But no. The letter was real. Solid. The weight of the coin purse on the table was real. The lingering smell of Snape's robes—a mixture of potion ingredients and something dark and smoky—still hung in the air.
It had actually happened.
He was going to Hogwarts.
Ethan felt like laughing, or maybe crying, or possibly both at the same time.
Then something caught his eye.
The cabinet. The empty cabinet that Snape had been touching.
It... wasn't empty anymore.
Ethan walked over slowly, his heart picking up speed again. Resting on the shelf, positioned exactly where Snape's hand had been trailing, was a book.
A thick book with a black cover, the title embossed in simple gold lettering:
"The Complete Guide to Basic Potions"
Ethan picked it up carefully, running his fingers over the worn cover. This wasn't a new book. The spine was creased from repeated opening, the corners slightly damaged. A used book. Someone's personal copy.
He flipped it open to a random page.
Immediately, he noticed the annotations. Handwritten notes in the margins, in small, precise script. Corrections to the printed text. Additional information. Personal observations.
"Bezoar: A stone taken from the stomach of a goat. Neutralizes most poisons and is a key ingredient in many antidotes... NOTE: Should have a strong, unpleasant odor. If it doesn't smell terrible, it's likely fake or degraded."
Ethan flipped to another page.
"When preparing Forgetfulness Potion, the standard text says to stir clockwise three times. This is INCORRECT. Stir four times, or the potion will be too weak to be effective. The textbook has propagated this error for decades."
These were Snape's notes. His corrections. His knowledge, gathered over years of study and practice.
And he'd just... left it here. For Ethan.
"Oh, you absolute softie," Ethan muttered, shaking his head with a genuine smile. "You big dramatic softy."
Professor Snape—Severus Snape, the supposedly cruel and heartless Potions Master—had been bribed with a portrait of his lost love and had not only decided not to report Ethan, but had given him money, explained the basics of the wizarding world, and left him a personal annotated textbook to study.
Underneath all that sarcasm and venom, there was actually a decent person.
Who knew?
Well, Ethan knew, actually, from reading the books. But still. Seeing it in person was different.
He carried the book over to the ratty sofa and sat down, positioning himself under the bright magical light that still shone from the repaired bulb.
He flipped to the first page and started reading.
Some of the ingredients described were... honestly kind of gross. Ethan wrinkled his nose as he read about various stones taken from animal organs, dried body parts from magical creatures, and liquids that had deeply unpleasant descriptions.
But he read on anyway, absorbing the information, already imagining himself in a Potions classroom, learning to brew these strange concoctions.
Hours passed. The light outside the grimy window faded to full darkness, then gradually began to lighten again as night turned toward dawn.
Ethan finally set the book aside when his eyes started to burn from exhaustion, even though he desperately wanted to keep reading.
He was too excited to sleep, but he forced himself to close his eyes and at least rest.
Tomorrow—well, today now, technically—he'd go to Diagon Alley.
He'd see real magic. A whole magical shopping district hidden in the middle of London.
He'd buy a wand. His own wand.
The thought made him grin like an idiot into the darkness.
The next morning.
Charing Cross Road, London.
Ethan stood on the sidewalk, wedged between a large bookstore on one side and a music shop on the other.
People flowed around him constantly—businessmen in suits hurrying to work, tourists consulting maps, teenagers with headphones bobbing their heads to music only they could hear.
London was crowded and noisy and smelled like car exhaust and street food and that indefinable urban smell of too many people in too small a space.
Nobody paid any attention to the skinny kid standing completely still, staring at something they couldn't see.
Because there, nestled between the bookstore and the music shop like it had always been there, was a building that most people's eyes just... skipped over.
The Leaky Cauldron.
A grimy, shabby-looking pub with a weathered sign hanging over the door. Dark windows. Peeling paint. The kind of place that looked vaguely unsafe and definitely unwelcoming.
Ethan could see it perfectly clearly.
And he was pretty sure he was the only non-magical person on this entire street who could.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door.
Time to enter the wizarding world for real.