1991, Spinner's End.
Ethan had just wrapped up a day of street-side portrait sketching.
Arms full of rough-edged, yellowed sheets of paper, his small, grimy hands clutched several uneven charcoal pencils as he staggered through the door.
He kicked the door shut with a loud bang, the rusted hinges groaning in protest behind him.
Carefully setting down his tools—his livelihood—on the table, Ethan collapsed into the grease-stained sofa with a long sigh.
Before him was a narrow and shabby room.
Peeling, crumbling walls; a cabinet cluttered with empty tin cans; a chair missing a leg.
In one corner, shards of glass shimmered in the twilight—remnants of beer bottles he had long since sold for scraps.
His cobalt-blue eyes lingered on the wall, where a charcoal portrait of a young man with black hair hung.
It was lifelike—eyes sharp with cynicism, as if ready to erupt into rage at any moment.
It was a portrait of Ethan's past self.
In his previous life, he had been a two-time art school reject.
Ethan had come to despise the rigid, lifeless exams that left no room for true creation.
The last thing he remembered was throwing himself in front of a speeding delivery truck after failing a second time.
He had no parents or family to leave behind—nothing tying him to that world.
Now, he had transmigrated into the body of an eleven-year-old boy living in a slum.
This unlucky child's mother had long run off with someone else, and the father—a drunken brute—would come home only to yell and beat him.
Fortunately, the biological father had been gone for over a month now.
Probably fertilizing a ditch somewhere.
Figures.
Growwwl~
His stomach let out a loud rumble.
Ethan pulled a soggy sandwich from his pocket—bought with the few coins he'd earned from his sketches.
Taking a bite of the odd-tasting sandwich, Ethan's thoughts stirred, and a light blue screen suddenly materialized before his eyes:
...
[Ethan Vincent (Age 11)]
[Soul Integration: 25% (You have not yet fully merged with this world; as a result, your magic remains unstable)]
[Special Skill – Art: Vivid Imagination Lv1]
[Your artwork may not shake the world, but it is certainly eye-catching]
[Gallery: None]
....
Magic?
Ethan immediately caught that key word.
He'd read the Harry Potter series before. Not a superfan, but he knew the general plot and main characters.
Spinner's End—that was an actual place in the original. It was where Professor Snape lived.
And if the system said he had magic…
Then maybe—just maybe—he could get into Hogwarts.
And possibly even be in the same year as the Boy Who Lived.
Ethan's mind raced. Every day, he eagerly awaited that owl who'd gotten lost in his previous life.
The past month had worn down his edges—no longer arrogant or impulsive, he had learned to conceal himself, to survive.
He couldn't stay in Spinner's End forever, scraping by on pennies from portraits.
He would get out of here—and with his art, show this rotten world something truly beautiful.
Ethan's eyes flared with a fierce, youthful fire.
But then—
Crunch.
He bit into the sandwich again.
Wet bread and soggy lettuce squished together in his mouth—like mud.
"...First, I need to make some real money."
Poof!
The flames of ambition were doused by the cold water of reality.
Just then—
Knock knock knock!
A sudden knock echoed through the room.
Ethan sprang up from the sofa, eyes instantly wary.
The sky was already dark—not exactly a friendly hour for visitors.
Could it be those punks again?
Ethan slowly backed away, careful not to make a sound, one hand reaching under the sofa for a kitchen knife.
Malnourished and bruised from past beatings, this body was weak.
He kept his money on him at all times. If things turned ugly, he was ready to escape through the window.
However—
"I know you're in there, Ethan Vincent. And don't even think of escaping through the window like some brainless troll."
A slow, cold voice slithered in from outside, bringing to mind a damp snake dragging its belly across the floor.
A troll?
Ethan froze. His eyes widened.
That… wasn't exactly common slang.
A figure surfaced in his memory.
Could it be… him?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Ethan could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. He swallowed hard, edged away from the window, and stepped toward the door.
He opened it slowly.
Standing outside was a man in a black cloak, greasy black curls hanging around his hooked nose.
He looked like a giant bat.
Gazing down at Ethan with a mix of irritation and disdain— It was none other than Severus Snape, Professor of Potions at Hogwarts.
Ethan nearly blurted out his name.
But he managed to hold himself back, putting on a wary expression as he asked,
"Who are you?"
Snape snorted, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"So the little genius artist of Spinner's End needs to check his clients' IDs before sketching them now?"
"Severus Snape."
"Now. Will you let me in?"
"...It's a bit dark to draw clearly right now, sir. If you'd like a portrait, perhaps come back tomor—"
Before Ethan could finish, Snape swept past him in a swirl of black robes and walked right in.
Then—
Flick!
The room was suddenly flooded with bright light. The broken bulb overhead shone with a clean, white glow.
Snape dropped himself onto the only sofa, glancing up at Ethan with a bored look and a wicked curl of his lips.
"Draw."
"…Okay."
Ethan paused for a beat, then quietly walked over, gathering his art supplies.
He sat down on the three-legged stool and politely asked: "What kind of portrait would you like, sir?"
"Whatever. Just a portrait. Isn't that what you're best at?"
Snape's lips twitched with a trace of mockery.
A portrait… huh.
That was his specialty.
But a regular portrait wasn't going to impress a Hogwarts professor. Ethan twirled his charcoal pencil, thoughts spinning.
Suddenly, a flash of red hair and green eyes came to mind.
Got it!
No one said whose portrait it had to be!
Ethan's eyes lit up with inspiration, and he felt a wave of creative energy surge through him.
Without hesitation, he began sketching, his pencil scratching rapidly over the rough paper.
The world outside faded into silence. All of Ethan's focus poured into the drawing—he leaned so close, it looked like he might fall into it.
Jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead.
He barely even remembered the face he was sketching, only a vague impression.
But now—it was like she stood right before him.
Line by line, his hand brought her to life on the page. This one… this one would be better than anything he'd ever drawn before.
He could feel it.
Scratch, scratch…
The only sound in the room was the charcoal against paper.
Snape, sensing the boy's leaking magic, pursed his lips in frustration.
He had come to clean up this brat's mess.
A little wizard who didn't even know what he was doing—
Selling magical portraits to Muggles on the street.
Each drawing radiated magical energy, drawing people in, captivating them. They stared at the portraits for hours—forgetting to eat or sleep.
No wonder the streets were empty today!
They'd all fallen under his spell.
This was dangerously close to dark magic—and worse, a direct violation of the Statute of Secrecy.
The Ministry had been bickering for weeks about how to handle it. Snape was already tired of it.
If not for Dumbledore, this boy would've already been tried in court. What made Snape even angrier was the reason Dumbledore had sent him.
Simply because they were both from Spinner's End.
"Ah, Severus, what a charming coincidence, don't you think?" Dumbledore had chuckled.
Just remembering that smug, twinkly-eyed smile made Snape's forehead throb.
He'd already made up his mind.
As soon as he got the sketch, he would tear it apart—verbally and emotionally. He even had the snide comments prepared, his lips already curled in smug anticipation.
This place disgusted him.
The rotting furniture, the mildew, the lingering stench of alcohol— It all reminded him of a past he desperately wanted to forget.
And of the one woman whose memory still pained his heart.
"Sir, it's finished."
The young voice snapped Snape from his thoughts.
He cleared his throat and snorted gruffly.
Snatching the paper with every intention of mocking it, he glanced casually at the drawing.
And froze.
As if hit by a Petrificus Totalus, Snape stood motionless. His eyes widened in shock, fixed on the figure in the sketch.
It was someone who should never have appeared in a drawing—
Someone buried in the deepest corner of his soul.
Lily Evans.