July 1st, 1992, Manhattan, New York, The Grand Hyatt Hotel, 9:48 AM
The finality of Director Picquery's "FINITE INCANTATEM" still echoed in the sudden silence, spells dissolving into nothingness like smoke in wind. For a single heartbeat, the conference hall hung suspended in that peculiar stillness that follows violence—the collective held breath of witnesses processing what they'd just seen.
Then everything went horribly wrong.
One of the MACUSA Aurors—a younger man with wild eyes and trembling hands, clearly new to field work—had already released his curse a split second before Picquery's counter-spell reached him. The sickly purple light lanced across the hall with terrible precision, striking the auburn-haired witch—Sarah Greenfield—squarely in the chest.
She crumpled without a sound, her body hitting the marble floor with a sickeningly final thud.
"NO!" Robert Thornwood's anguished cry tore through the shocked silence as he lunged towards her, his hood falling back completely. Around him, other protesters' disguises failed in the chaos—hoods sliding off, glamour charms flickering and dying as concentration shattered.
Many of the onlooker's breath caught in their throat as faces were revealed. They were young. Merlin, they were so young. Most appeared to be teenagers—fifteen, sixteen, perhaps eighteen at most. Children, really. The same age as some of Hogwarts' upper years.
"Bloody hell," someone in the crowd breathed, the words carrying clearly in the stunned silence. "They're students. They're children."
Gasps rippled through the attendees as recognition set in. Several were Ilvermorny students, their faces known to American magical society. Others were recent graduates, barely adults themselves. The realisation transformed the atmosphere from mere shock to something approaching collective guilt.
Sarah wasn't moving. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular gasps, but her skin had taken on an alarming greyish pallor. Purple veins were beginning to spiderweb across her exposed neck and face—the telltale signs of a particularly nasty Dark curse, one that caused progressive necrosis if not immediately treated.
Director Picquery's wand was already moving, her face transformed from stern authority to cold fury. "Auror Morrison! Drop your wand. NOW."
But Ethan was faster.
He moved with a fluid grace that seemed to bend the very air around him, his ulster coat billowing as he crossed the distance between his position and Sarah's fallen form in what appeared to be a single step. The translucent navy curtain of his Impervius Cortina expanded outward, creating a protective dome over both himself and the injured girl.
'Dad,' Harry thought, his hands clenching the strap of his satchel. Luna's grip on his other hand tightened almost painfully.
Ethan's wand traced complex patterns in the air, his dark amber eyes blazing with concentrated starlight brilliance that Harry had only seen a handful of times before. His movements were precise, economical—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
This was Ethan the Unspeakable, the senior field operative, the man who'd once fought his way through a poacher hideout, further more was a war and emerged without a scratch.
"Finite Incantatem Maxima," Ethan's voice carried absolute authority, the spell layered with enough power that the air itself seemed to ripple. The purple veins spreading across Sarah's skin halted their progression, though they didn't recede.
Robert had reached them now, dropping to his knees beside Sarah. "Please," he choked out, looking up at Ethan with desperate eyes. "Please help her. She's—Merlin, there's so much blood—"
"Stay calm," Ethan commanded, his voice cutting through Robert's panic like a blade. "Hold her head steady. Don't let her move."
His wand moved again, this time in a sweeping arc that pulled silvery threads from the air itself—pure magical energy made visible. "Vulnera Sanentur," he murmured, the incantation repeated three times in succession, each iteration stronger than the last.
The purple veins began to fade, retreating slowly from Sarah's face. Her breathing steadied, becoming deeper and more regular. Colour started returning to her skin, replacing the deathly grey with something approaching natural paleness.
Around them, the hall had erupted into controlled chaos. Picquery was barking orders, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Lockdown! I want this entire floor sealed—nobody in or out. Someone get me Healers from St. Mungo's New York branch immediately. And somebody restrain Auror Morrison before I do something I'll regret."
The young Auror was sheet-white, his eyes wide with the dawning horror of what he'd done.
But Harry's attention was caught by movement at the edge of his vision—a man with a camera, distinctive even in the crowd. The journalist was clicking away furiously, capturing everything: the fallen protesters, their revealed youthful faces, Ethan bent over Sarah's prone form, the arrested Aurors, Picquery's furious expression.
'This is bad,' Harry realised with sudden, terrible clarity. 'If those photographs get published...'
Director Picquery had clearly reached the same conclusion. "SEAL THE EXITS!" she commanded, her voice magically amplified. "As of this moment, this venue is under MACUSA quarantine. Nobody leaves until I personally authorise it. Anyone attempting to depart will be detained and charged with obstruction of justice."
The enchanted doors slammed shut with resonant finality, magical locks clicking into place. Several attendees who'd been edging towards the exits froze, weighing the consequences of defying a direct order from the Director of MACUSA.
"Director Picquery," one of the conference organisers ventured nervously, "surely that's—"
"Constitutional?" Picquery finished coldly. "I'm invoking emergency powers under the Magical Security Act of 1876. We have an injured minor, exposure of underage activists to potential retaliation, and at least one journalist attempting to flee with inflammatory photographs. I'd call that sufficient justification."
She turned to face the assembled crowd, her presence commanding absolute attention. "Let me be perfectly clear. What happened here today was a disaster—one that reflects poorly on everyone involved. But if photographs of injured children being cursed by MACUSA Aurors reach the press before we can establish proper context, the damage will be catastrophic. Not just to MACUSA's reputation, but to these young people whose faces are now exposed."
Robert looked up sharply from where he knelt beside Sarah, his face pale but determined. "We knew the risks—"
"You're fourteen years old, Mr. Thornwood," Picquery cut him off, though not unkindly. "You may think you understand the consequences of public exposure, but you don't. Not really. Once your identities are published, you become targets. For MACUSA hardliners, for pure-blood supremacists, for anyone with an axe to grind against Rappaport's Law reform."
She paused, letting that sink in. "I may not agree with your methods, but I'll be damned if I let children be martyred on my watch."
Ethan straightened slowly, his wand still trained on Sarah, empty bottles potion vanished at a wave of his hand. "She's stabilised," he announced, his voice carrying clearly. "But she needs proper hospital care. That curse was designed to cause progressive tissue death—I've halted it, but reversing the damage requires potions and sustained healing charms beyond what I can provide here."
"Healers are en route," Picquery confirmed. "They'll be here within minutes." She moved closer to Ethan, lowering her voice slightly—though Harry, with his attention focused entirely on his father, could still hear her. "That was exceptional spell-work, Mr. Esther. Vulnera Sanentur isn't commonly known outside specialised healing circles. Where did you learn it?"
"One accumulates various skills over the years," Ethan replied neutrally, though Harry noticed the way his father's eyes flicked briefly toward the spot where the journalist had disappeared. "Director, we have a more immediate problem than my qualifications."
"The photographs," Picquery confirmed grimly. "I'm aware. We'll find him."
"You won't," Ethan said flatly. "He's already gone—slipped out during the confusion using a Disillusionment Charm and probably a Portkey embedded in his camera case. Standard journalist tradecraft."
Picquery's expression darkened. "Then we'll issue a statement before he can publish. Frame the narrative on our terms."
"That might not be enough." Ethan's gaze swept the room, calculating. Then, to Harry's surprise, his father pulled out his golden pocket watch—not to check the time, but to activate its communication function. He tapped the face three times in a specific pattern.
Moments later, the watch vibrated with a response. Ethan lifted it to his ear, listening intently before speaking quietly into it. "Samuel. I need a favour. A significant one... Yes, I'm aware what time it is in London... No, this can't wait. We have an international incident developing in New York, and it requires immediate political intervention at the highest levels."
Harry exchanged a confused glance with Luna, who was listening with that peculiar focused intensity she sometimes displayed.
"Who's he talking to?" Harry whispered.
"Mr. Faramundo," Luna replied softly, her grey eyes tracking something invisible around Ethan. "The Wrackspurts are moving very quickly now. This is becoming rather complicated."
"Oh, Uncle Sam" Harry said.
On the other end of the communication, they could hear muffled cursing—Sam's voice, distinctive even through the magical distortion—followed by resigned agreement. Ethan's mouth quirked into a slight smile.
"I need you to contact Minister Fudge," Ethan continued, his tone businesslike. "Yes, that Minister Fudge. I'm aware of our mutual opinion of the man, but he has one undeniable talent: political manoeuvring. We need someone who can spin this situation into an opportunity rather than a disaster... Exactly. An international magical cooperation initiative. Frame it as Britain taking the lead in fostering cross-border collaboration... Perfect. I'll owe you for this, Sam."
He closed the watch and turned back to Picquery. "Director, I may have a solution. But it requires your cooperation and a certain... flexibility in how we present these events to the international magical community."
Picquery studied him for a long moment. "I'm listening."
"What if," Ethan said carefully, "instead of a shameful incident to be covered up, this becomes the catalyst for something larger? An international forum for addressing shared magical challenges. A cooperative body that brings together magical governments to tackle issues that transcend national boundaries, like the treatment of Squibs, the integration of magical and Muggle knowledge, standardisation of certain laws and practices."
"You're bringing this to the International Confederation of Wizards (ICF)?" Picquery observed, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Precisely," Ethan confirmed. "And if Britain's Minister for Magic were to propose it, with MACUSA's full support, as a direct response to today's events, it transforms the narrative entirely. No longer 'MACUSA Aurors Attack Peaceful Protesters.' Instead, 'Historic International Magical Summit Announced Following Passionate Student Advocacy.'"
Picquery was silent for several seconds, her mind clearly racing through the implications. "The conservative factions would still oppose it."
"But they'd be opposing progress and international cooperation," Ethan countered. "Much harder to defend politically than opposing protesters. Especially if we ensure that families affected by current laws, like these young people, have a voice in the proceedings."
"You want to give the protesters legitimacy," Picquery said slowly. "Make them stakeholders in the solution rather than problems to be suppressed."
"I want to give them hope," Ethan corrected gently. "And hope is far less dangerous than desperation. Desperate people take desperate actions. But people with a legitimate path forward? They become invested in making the system work."
Harry watched his father with growing awe. This was political chess at its finest—turning a disaster into an opportunity, finding the narrow path that served everyone's interests whilst still achieving the desired outcome.
'This is what he does,' Harry realised. 'Not just magic. Not just fighting. This. Seeing connections, finding solutions, making impossible things possible.'
Picquery was nodding slowly. "It could work. But Fudge would need to move quickly—before the photographs can be published."
"He will," Ethan assured her. "For all his many faults, Cornelius Fudge understands the value of being seen as a visionary leader. The opportunity to position Britain at the forefront of international magical cooperation will appeal to his vanity immensely."
"And Atid Stella?" Picquery asked shrewdly. "How does your company benefit from this arrangement?"
Ethan's smile was slight but genuine. "An international forum creates natural opportunities for cross-border magical innovation sharing. Atid Stella has developed technologies that could benefit magical communities worldwide—Runic Lamps, temperature regulation devices, and yes, experimental wand modifications for Squibs. An international cooperative body would provide the perfect framework for distributing these innovations whilst ensuring proper oversight and standardisation."
"Enlightened self-interest," Picquery observed. "I can respect that."
"The best kind," Ethan agreed. "Everyone benefits. MACUSA avoids a public relations catastrophe. Britain gains prestige as an international leader. The protesters achieve legitimacy and a genuine path toward reform. And innovations that could improve lives get proper international support and regulation."
A commotion at one of the side entrances interrupted them—three Healers in crisp white robes rushed in, levitating a medical stretcher between them. Picquery directed them to Sarah with crisp efficiency.
The senior Healer, a stern-faced woman with silver hair, knelt beside Sarah and began running diagnostic charms. After a moment, she looked up at Ethan with undisguised respect. "Whoever stabilised her saved her life. That was a Withering Curse—nasty piece of work. Another two minutes without treatment and the necrosis would have been irreversible."
Robert made a choking sound, his face crumbling. "Sarah..."
"She'll recover fully," the Healer assured him, her tone gentling. "We'll need to keep her at St. Mungo's for a few days, administer counter-potions and restorative draughts, but there should be no permanent damage."
Relief flooded through Harry so intensely that his knees felt weak. Luna's hand squeezed his, and when he glanced at her, she was smiling that soft, knowing smile.
"She's going to be alright," Luna murmured. "The Wrackspurts are settling down now. The worst has passed."
The Healers levitated Sarah onto the stretcher and began guiding it toward the exit. Robert stood to follow, but Picquery's voice stopped him.
"Mr. Thornwood. You and the other protesters will need to remain for questioning."
Robert's shoulders tensed, but he nodded. "I understand."
"However," Picquery continued, and something in her tone made him look up, "given the developing circumstances, I believe that questioning can take the form of a consultation rather than an interrogation. We'll need your input on how best to structure this international initiative—who should represent the affected families, what specific reforms should be prioritised, that sort of thing."
Robert's eyes widened. "You're... you're actually going to include us?"
"Mr. Esther made a compelling argument," Picquery said dryly. "And I'm not so proud that I can't recognise good advice when I hear it. You and your fellow activists have risked a great deal to be heard. The least we can do is actually listen."
Over the next hour, the situation evolved with remarkable speed. Minister Fudge, roused from his bed in London and no doubt motivated by visions of international acclaim, issued a statement proposing an "International Confederation for Magical Cooperation"—a grand name for what Ethan had outlined, but then, Fudge did love his grand gestures.
MACUSA released its own statement simultaneously, expressing full support for the initiative and framing the day's events as "passionate advocacy from concerned citizens that highlighted the need for international dialogue on shared magical challenges."
The journalist with his damning photographs was tracked down—not by MACUSA, but by a very efficient and somewhat frightening witch from the British Department of Mysteries whom Sam had apparently sent via emergency Portkey. The photographs were "confiscated pending review," though Harry suspected they'd been destroyed outright.
Throughout it all, Ethan moved through the chaos with quiet efficiency, coordinating with Howard, consulting with Picquery, sending communications back to London. Harry watched his father orchestrate events like a conductor leading an orchestra, each element falling into place with seemingly effortless precision.
By early afternoon, the lockdown was lifted. Attendees were allowed to leave after providing statements and swearing magical oaths not to discuss specifics of the incident until official reports were released. The protesters—their identities now officially "under seal for their protection"—were escorted to a secure location for the promised consultations.
As they filed out, Robert broke away from the group and hurried over to where Harry, Luna, and Ethan were gathering their things.
"Mr. Esther," Robert said breathlessly, "I don't know how to thank you. What you did for Sarah, and then... all of this." He gestured vaguely at the now-emptying hall. "You've given us a real chance. Not just at reform, but at being part of the solution."
Ethan inclined his head. "See that you use it wisely. Real change requires patience, strategy, and the willingness to compromise when necessary. Passion is valuable, but it must be tempered with pragmatism."
"I understand," Robert said seriously. Then he turned to Harry and Luna. "And thank you both. Just for being here, for witnessing. It meant more than you know."
"You were very brave," Luna told him solemnly. "All of you. I hope your sister comes home soon."
Robert's eyes glistened slightly. "Me too. But for the first time, I actually believe it might happen." He took a shaky breath. "They're saying the International Confederation's first major initiative will be reviewing cross-border magical family separation policies. That's... that's everything we've been fighting for."
Harry found his voice, though it came out quieter than he'd intended. "W-what will you do now?"
"Keep fighting," Robert said simply. "But smarter. Director Picquery offered to include student representatives in the planning committees—she specifically mentioned me and Sarah, once she's recovered. We'll have an actual seat at the table instead of just shouting from outside."
"Progress," Ethan observed.
"Progress," Robert agreed. He shook hands with each of them before rejoining the other protesters.
Howard approached as Robert left, his expression a complicated mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. "Well. That was rather more eventful than anticipated."
"Indeed," Ethan said dryly. "Though I suspect you anticipated at least some of it."
Howard had the grace to look sheepish. "I may have... been aware that a demonstration was planned. I didn't organise it—truly, I didn't. But when Robert approached me about the conference schedule, I may have mentioned that a presentation on Squib magical restoration would be occurring at a specific time and place."
"Howard," Ethan said, though there was more amusement than reproach in his tone.
"I believe in this cause," Howard said firmly. "The research is real. The theory is sound. But theory without political will is just academic exercise. I knew we needed something to force people to pay attention, to care. I just... didn't anticipate it would become quite so dramatic."
"Sarah nearly died," Ethan pointed out quietly.
Howard's face fell. "I know. I know, and I'll carry that guilt." Heaving a big sigh. "If it weren't for you, things could have had..."
Ethan replied. "Just... be more careful in the future."
"Noted," Howard said with obvious relief. "And thank you. For everything. For the healing, for the political manoeuvring, for... for believing the work matters."
"It does matter," Ethan confirmed. "Which is why Atid Stella will be committing significant resources to the collaborative research. Expect formal proposals within the week."
They spent a few more minutes finalising plans before saying their goodbyes. Howard had meetings with MACUSA officials to attend, and Ethan was clearly eager to return home.
The Portkey back to London—a battered New York guidebook this time—was scheduled for 4:00 PM from the same abandoned telephone box where they'd arrived. As they waited for the activation time, Harry found himself processing everything that had happened.
"Dad," he said quietly, "that thing you did. Turning the whole situation around. Making something good come from something awful. How did you know it would work?"
Ethan considered the question seriously. "I didn't, not with certainty. But I understood the motivations of the key players. Picquery wanted to protect both MACUSA's reputation and the young protesters. Fudge wanted prestige. Howard wanted his research funded and recognised. The protesters wanted meaningful change. I simply found the solution that gave everyone what they needed."
"That's not simple," Harry protested.
"No," Ethan agreed, a slight smile touching his lips. "But it's necessary. Power—whether magical or political—is a tool. Like any tool, its morality depends entirely on how it's wielded and to what end. Today, we wielded it to protect people who couldn't protect themselves and to create opportunities for positive change. That's the kind of power worth having."
Luna hummed thoughtfully. "The Wrackspurts agree. They're forming rather pretty patterns now—all organised and purposeful. Before, they were just swirling about making mischief."
At precisely 4:00 PM, the Portkey activated. The familiar hook-behind-the-navel sensation yanked them forward through space, colours and sensations blurring into incomprehensibility.
They landed with only slightly better grace than their departure in the quiet sitting room of 221B Baker Street. The familiar scent of old books and Earl Grey tea welcomed them home.
"Finally!" Remus's voice called from the kitchen. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to immigrate permanently."
He emerged carrying a tea tray, his warm brown eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure at seeing them. "How was New York?"
"Educational," Ethan said dryly, removing his travelling cloak.
A golden blur shot through the air—Jasper, who'd apparently been waiting by the window. The Snidget landed on Harry's shoulder with an indignant chirp, nuzzling against his cheek as if to scold him for the absence.
"I missed you too," Harry laughed, stroking the tiny bird's head.
From the corner, Osian the Re'em raised his magnificent head, surveyed them with those intelligent golden eyes, and then... deliberately turned away with a huff, as if their return was beneath his notice.
"Oh, don't be like that," Luna chided, moving to scratch behind the creature's ears. Osian made a show of resistance for approximately three seconds before leaning into her touch with obvious pleasure.
'Traitor,' Harry thought fondly.
Remus set the tea tray down and settled into his favourite armchair. "So. Educational how, exactly?" He fixed Ethan with a knowing look. "Why do I have the distinct impression you were involved in something politically significant?"
"Because I was," Ethan admitted, accepting a cup of tea. "Though the details will have to wait. Some of it's still under official seal."
"Of course it is," Remus sighed. "Just tell me nobody was seriously hurt."
"One injury, but she'll recover fully," Ethan assured him. Then, with a slight smile, "And we may have accidentally helped establish what will probably become a norm in the I.C.F."
Remus choked on his tea. "You what?"
"It's a long story," Harry offered, settling onto the sofa with Jasper still perched on his shoulder. Luna curled up beside him, and Osian, having forgiven them for their absence, ambled over to rest his head on Luna's lap.
"I have time," Remus said dryly.
As they began recounting the events—editing slightly for security, but capturing the essential truth—Harry felt a profound sense of contentment settle over him. They were home. They were safe. And they'd witnessed something important, been part of something that might genuinely make the world better.
Outside, the London evening was settling in, street lamps beginning to glow against the gathering dusk. Somewhere across the Atlantic, families torn apart by unjust laws were learning they might have hope of reunion. Protesters who'd risked everything were being given legitimate voices. And the seeds of international magical cooperation were being planted.
It wasn't a perfect solution. There would be setbacks, resistance, complications. But it was a beginning.
And sometimes, Harry was learning, beginnings were enough.