Harry Potter: Don't Touch the Badger's Plants

Pansy glared, her face contorted with fury, at Ethan and the assembled Gryffindors. A surge of pure-blood indignation, hot and sharp, welled up inside her. It was the anger of someone who discovers a stray dog has the audacity to bite.

She whipped her head around, ready to command her housemates to unleash a storm of curses. Let these poor, lowly Mudbloods see exactly who they've provoked!

However, the sight that met her eyes was a sparse, wavering line of Slytherins. Fewer than ten remained. Some were already shrinking back, their eyes darting toward the castle as they tried to slip away unnoticed.

Pansy's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wh-what's going on? Where is everyone?!"

Only Goyle and Crabbe still stood on the front line, trembling. It was difficult to tell if they were bravely holding their ground or had simply forgotten how to run.

It was only then, in the face of her crumbling army, that Pansy finally understood the situation she was in. Her face turned a deathly pale. She slowly turned back to meet the unified gaze of a pack of menacing lions, their red and gold ties like flashes of fire. A restless, predatory energy rolled off them, so thick it felt as though they would surge forward and tear her to shreds at any moment.

The only thing holding them back was the silent command of one person.

Ethan Vincent.

When her terrified eyes met his cold, emotionless cobalt-blue ones, Pansy's arrogance shattered. She stumbled backward and plopped onto the damp grass, the fight draining out of her. She stared at the sea of Gryffindors, all eager for a fight, their glares promising pain.

Reality finally crashed down upon her, and in its wake, a belated, profound fear took root.

Ethan looked down at the trembling girl on the ground, his own eyes narrowing as he took a deep, slow breath. He could feel the roiling atmosphere—the Gryffindors' righteous anger and the Slytherins' palpable fear. An intoxicated expression spread across his face. It was utterly satisfying.

Slytherin? Speak to me on your knees.

As if summoned by the sheer force of his will, a series of notifications bloomed in his mind.

[Your art has created a profound impact!]

[Soul Fusion increased by 3%!]

[You have unlocked a new skill: Fusion]

[The blending of flesh gives birth to new life; so too does the blending of paintings and pigments.]

[Effect: When two extraordinary paintings are merged, a new, combined effect will be produced.]

[Note: Fused paintings can be separated, unless one possesses a specific devouring property.]

A full 3% increase! Even the "Broomstick Pox" incident, which had caused a minor sensation, had only yielded a 1% boost. With this, his Soul Fusion broke through the 30% mark. And he'd gained a new skill.

Fusion.

The combination of two paintings and two different magical techniques, to create a new effect. The description alone sent a cascade of ideas through Ethan's mind. Once he had more extraordinary paintings in his arsenal, his magical combinations would become infinitely more diverse, allowing him to catch any enemy completely off guard.

The system's reward felt like a bucket of cool spring water poured over his head on a scorching day. A torrent of magical power surged through him, revitalized and potent.

Just then, he felt the wand in his hand vibrate. It resonated with the magic thrumming in his body, and a faint scent—a familiar mix of nuts and minerals—emanated from the wood. It was the smell of paint.

Is it going to transform?!

Ethan's heart leaped. He quickly seized the feeling, pouring his focus and magic into the wand. Its surface began to shimmer and flow as if turned to liquid, distorting the space around it. In his mind, he tried desperately to picture the perfect paintbrush, to give the magic a form to follow.

But something was missing. A crucial, final component was absent.

A few seconds later, the misty glow faded, and the wand's form stabilized. Only the lingering scent of paint and potential remained. Ethan opened his eyes and looked down at his wand. Its smooth, light brown surface was still the same, the fine horizontal ridges like sacred symbols etched into the wood. It was a wand that fit him perfectly, as if destined for him from the moment of its creation.

"So close…" Ethan murmured, a hint of frustration in his voice.

He wasn't anxious, though. Patience often yielded the best results. The day's harvest had already been abundant: a 3% soul fusion increase, a nearly transformed wand, and a powerful new skill. He had even managed to deliver an impassioned speech that had shaken the social order of the first-years.

Malfoy, you've been a great help.

Ethan cast a benevolent gaze at Malfoy, who was still gasping for air under Pansy's crushing grip. At that moment, his eyes darted, catching a glimpse of a stern figure hurrying toward them from the castle. He raised his wand, pointing it toward the heap of miserable Slytherins on the ground.

"Ah!" Pansy shrieked, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching her head. Her grip on Malfoy tightened, nearly strangling him. She was sure Ethan was about to curse her. Deep, gut-wrenching regret washed over her. Why had she provoked this madman? A fierce lunatic was one thing, but a cultured, calculating one was a thousand times more terrifying.

The threat of death had never felt so real.

"Episkey," Ethan said, his voice calm and gentle.

A soft, white light enveloped the fallen Malfoy. The grotesque swelling on his cheek subsided, and the blood trickling from his nose vanished.

"Help… help me… Hmm?" Malfoy, who had been calling for aid in a voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, belatedly realized the throbbing pain in his face was gone. Has a professor arrived?

He blinked his eyes open, hoping for the first time in his life to see a teacher, but was met instead by Ethan's smiling face.

Malfoy's expression went blank. Maybe I should just faint.

Ethan's action shocked everyone once again. Pansy sat limply on the ground, disheveled and covered in mud, her legs too weak to stand. Finally, her mouth crumpled, and she burst into tears, broken down mentally and physically by the very "Mudblood" she so despised.

Ron stared, stunned. "Ethan! Why did you heal him? We should be pressing the advantage!"

Ethan turned to him, his expression one of utter seriousness. "What are you talking about, Ron? Am I that kind of violent person? Friendship first, competition second."

He looked back at Malfoy and offered a pure, innocent smile. "We were just having a friendly spar, weren't we? All to promote our mutual understanding of spellwork."

Malfoy glanced at the dark puddle of blood on the grass beside him. He was beginning to think Ethan's understanding of the word "friendly" was terribly, dangerously skewed.

Before he could respond, however, everyone understood Ethan's motive.

"What is the meaning of this?!" With a sharp cry, Professor McGonagall's figure swept onto the scene.

The remaining Slytherins scrambled toward her as if she were their savior, huddling behind her robes. The sight made McGonagall's lips thin into a severe line. Her sharp eyes immediately fell on Malfoy and the bloodstains on his collar. Her heart sank. After a quick check confirmed he wasn't seriously injured, her relief was instantly replaced by towering rage.

"Who," she demanded, her voice dangerously low, "will explain to me what has been going on here?"

Harry whispered, "It was Malfoy, Professor! He came to provoke Ethan!"

"Enough, Mr. Potter!" McGonagall's glare was sharp enough to cut glass. "We will discuss your little dive later. Did you consider for one moment that you could have broken your neck?!"

Harry flinched, remembering his illegal broom ride. Next to Ethan's actions, it suddenly seemed like a minor infraction.

At that moment, another voice cut in. "Professor McGonagall, please don't be angry. It's all my fault."

Ethan looked up, his face a perfect mask of remorse and resolve, as if he were bravely preparing to take full responsibility.

"Malfoy challenged me to a duel," he explained. "It was my first time, so I'm afraid I may have been a bit heavy-handed. Although I healed his injuries immediately afterward, I am still truly sorry, Professor."

Malfoy stared at Ethan, utterly dumbfounded. Every word Ethan spoke was, technically, the truth.

So why did it sound so damn innocent?

"A bit" heavy-handed? You nearly beat me to death!

(End of Chapter)

***

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