August 8th, 1992, 221B Baker Street, London, 11:32 PM
The basement laboratory was silent, save for the soft hiss of magical flames dancing in their sconces. Ethan stood at the centre of a meticulously drawn runic circle, his golden pocket watch clutched in one hand, his sycamore wand in the other. The air thrummed with latent power, responding to the careful preparations he'd spent the last ten minutes perfecting.
Around him, seven silver mirrors stood at precisely calculated angles, each one reflecting not his physical form but fragments of possible futures—ghostly images that flickered and shifted like smoke. A brazier of crushed moonstone and powdered phoenix feather smouldered at each cardinal point, filling the chamber with sweet, acrid smoke that seemed to carry whispers of what might be.
Ethan's dark amber eyes blazed with starlight brilliance as his True Sight activated fully, perceiving layers of reality that most wizards would never glimpse. The golden pocket watch—his most reliable divination focus—hummed with stored temporal resonance, the lapis lazuli crystal at its heart glowing faintly.
'Focus,' he commanded himself, centring his consciousness.
He'd spent considerable time since Dobby's warning, researching, correlating, divining peripheral questions to narrow the possibilities.
The house-elf had confirmed—however inadvertently—that a dark object was being planted at Hogwarts. Something old. Something designed to target Muggle-borns.
Ethan had cross-referenced this with historical records, consulting restricted texts in his personal collection and sending carefully worded queries to contacts in the Department of Mysteries.
The answer that kept emerging was deeply troubling: A diary, A Basilisk, A Phoenix and even... Horcruxes.
As one might know, Basilisk venom was one of the few substances capable of destroying Horcruxes.
Including, potentially, the fragmented soul shard anchored to Harry's scar.
Ethan took a slow breath, steadying himself. This divination would be complex, dangerous even. He was asking the universe to reveal not just one future, but the precise calibration required to turn a deadly threat into an opportunity for Harry's salvation.
He began the ritual.
"Revelo Tempus," he intoned, his voice resonating with layered harmonics as magic flooded through him. "Ostende Viam. Monstra Fatum."
' Can the events of Harry's second year be manipulated to destroy or weaken the soul fragment attached to him?'
' Can the events of Harry's second year be manipulated to destroy or weaken the soul fragment attached to him?'
' Can the events of Harry's second year be manipulated to destroy or weaken the soul fragment attached to him?'
... Ethan's mumurs for seven times.
The mirrors flared with brilliant light. Images coalesced—Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, facing a massive serpent with eyes like molten gold. The vision was fragmented, showing multiple variations:
In one, Harry dies outright, venom stopping his heart before help arrives.
In another, he survives but the soul fragment remains intact, too deeply rooted to be damaged by the venom's brief contact.
In a third, Fawkes arrives too quickly, the phoenix tears neutralising the venom before it can reach the Horcrux.
But there—in the fourth mirror—Ethan saw it. A narrow window of possibility, shimmering with potential: Harry bitten, venom spreading, the soul fragment beginning to fracture under the assault of the Basilisk's poison. Seconds pass...long enough for damage, not long enough for death. Then Fawkes, tears flowing, pulling Harry back from the brink whilst the damaged Horcrux fragment dissolves into nothingness.
The probability percentage crystallised in Ethan's mind: 23.7%.
Less than one in four. But it was possible.
The pocket watch grew hot in his hand as he pressed deeper, seeking the conditions required to shift probability in their favour. The visions swirled faster, and Ethan's consciousness expanded, touching the threads of fate.
Harry must face the Basilisk directly. No intermediaries.
The venom must enter his bloodstream, not just contact his skin.
Fawkes must arrive, but not immediately—a delay was sufficient.
The soul fragment must be sufficiently weakened beforehand—through Harry's own magical development, through the bond formed with his wands, through the strengthening of his core via wandless practice.
And crucially, Ethan himself must not interfere directly during the critical moment, or the worst would happen immediately.
'I would have to let him face it alone,' Ethan realised, the thought sending ice through his veins.
Every instinct screamed against it. The thought of deliberately allowing Harry to walk into mortal danger, of calculating the precise moment before intervention would cause more harm than good—it was anathema to everything Ethan felt as a father.
But the alternative was leaving that fragment of Voldemort anchored to Harry's soul indefinitely, a ticking time bomb that could be exploited, that tied his son to the Dark Lord in ways that could prove catastrophic.
The divination reached its conclusion, the mirrors dimming as the ritual's power waned. Ethan released the magic with a controlled exhalation, feeling the familiar bone-deep exhaustion that followed major divination work.
He stood in the silence of his laboratory, the weight of knowledge settling on his shoulders like lead.
'The odds are terrible,' Ethan thought, carefully returning his tools to their proper places with hands that wanted to shake. 'But they're better than zero. And if I can manipulate events carefully, ensure that Harry is as prepared as possible, ensure that the conditions align properly...perhaps I can improve them.'
He extinguished the magical flames with a gesture, plunging the laboratory into darkness broken only by the faint glow of residual magic.
As he climbed the stairs back to the main house, Ethan's mind was already racing through calculations and contingencies. He would need to ensure Harry's continued training. He would need to monitor events at Hogwarts closely without revealing his knowledge. He would need to ensure Dumbledore remained unaware of his interference, lest the meddlesome old wizard complicate matters.
And he would need to live with the knowledge that he was deliberately allowing his son to walk into danger, gambling on a less-than-one-in-four chance of a positive outcome.
'For Harry's future,' Ethan told himself firmly, settling into his study chair with a heavy thud.
Outside, the London night pressed against the windows, and somewhere in the darkness, fate itself seemed to hold its breath.
August 12th, 1992, The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, 6:43 PM
The Burrow appeared suddenly as they crested a hill, and Harry couldn't suppress his gasp of amazement. The house—if it could be called a single house—looked as though several buildings had been stacked haphazardly atop one another, held together by magic and optimism in equal measure. Four or five chimneys poked from the ramshackle roof, and various additions jutted out at odd angles, giving the whole structure a wonderfully chaotic appearance.
"It's brilliant," Luna breathed, her grey eyes wide with delight. "Like a house that grew naturally instead of being built. I can see at least seven different types of protective charms woven into the foundations, and—oh, are those garden gnomes?"
Indeed, several small, potato-like creatures were visible in the overgrown garden, their wrinkled faces scowling at the approaching visitors.
Ethan, walking beside the two with his usual measured stride, allowed himself a small smile. "Arthur's correspondence did mention the house was somewhat... eclectic."
The front door burst open before they could knock, and a plump, kindly-faced woman with flaming red hair emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You must be Ethan, Harry!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, her voice warm with genuine welcome. "And Miss Lovegood, of course."
"Arthur's been beside himself waiting for you—going on and on about flying cars and runic modifications. Come in, come in! Dinner's almost ready." Mrs Weasley affection was overwhelming yet much needed.
They were ushered into organised chaos. The kitchen was small but somehow accommodated a large scrubbed wooden table, a crackling stove, and what seemed like dozens of copper pans hanging from the ceiling. The delicious smell of roasting chicken and vegetables filled the air.
"Harry!" Ron appeared from somewhere above, his voice carrying down the stairs. "You've got to see my room, Fred and George set up this brilliant prank involving enchanted chess pieces and... Mum, can Harry come up before dinner?"
"After you've greeted our guests properly, Ronald," Mrs Weasley chided, though her tone was affectionate. "Where are your manners?"
Ron skidded to a halt in the kitchen doorway, his ears turning pink. "Right. Sorry. Hello, Mr Esther, sir. Hi Luna. Hi Harry."
"Hello, Ron," Ethan replied with amusement. "I appreciate the enthusiasm."
More Weasleys appeared in rapid succession. Fred and George bounded down the stairs in perfect synchronisation, greeting Harry with elaborate bows and Luna with exaggerated gallantry. Percy emerged from what appeared to be a study, looking important with a Prefect badge gleaming on his chest. And from the garden came Arthur Weasley himself, his face lit up with barely contained excitement.
"Ethan!" Arthur clasped Ethan's hand enthusiastically, his balding head shining in the evening light. "I'm so glad you could make it. And young Harry, Miss Lovegood—welcome, welcome! I hope the journey wasn't too taxing?"
"The Portkey was perfectly calibrated," Ethan assured him. "Your directions were quite precise."
"Excellent, excellent! Now, I know Molly's got dinner ready, but afterwards, if you're not too tired, I'd love to show you the modifications I've made to the Anglia. I think you'll find the integration of the Charm work with the mechanical components absolutely fascinating—"
"Arthur," Mrs Weasley interrupted gently, "let them breathe first. There'll be plenty of time for car talk after we've eaten."
Dinner was a revelation.
The Weasley family, gathered around the groaning table, created an atmosphere of warmth and controlled chaos that Harry had never experienced before. Conversations overlapped, jokes were exchanged, gentle ribbing was delivered with obvious affection. Mrs Weasley moved between ensuring everyone had enough food and breaking up arguments between Fred and George with practised ease.
Luna found herself seated next to Ginny—the youngest Weasley and only girl—who'd been quiet upon their arrival but gradually warmed up under Luna's dreamy, non-judgmental conversation.
"Do you believe in Nargles?" Luna asked seriously, passing Ginny the potatoes.
Ginny blinked, considering. "I... I don't know. What are they?"
"Mischievous creatures that infest mistletoe," Luna explained. "They cause a lot of trouble, but they're not malicious. Just playful."
"That sounds rather nice, actually," Ginny said shyly. "Better than gnomes, anyway. Those are just nasty."
Harry watched them with a smile, pleased to see Luna making another friend.
Across the table, Ethan was engaged in animated discussion with Arthur about the theoretical applications of runic arrays in Muggle technology, whilst Percy attempted to interject with Ministry regulations that were cheerfully ignored by everyone, well, save for Ethan.
Which Percy really appreciated, his respect toward the gentleman grew more and more.
"T...this is w..wonderful, Mrs Weasley," Harry said during a lull in conversation. "Thank you f..for inviting us."
"Oh, sweetheart, call me Molly," she beamed at him. "And you're welcome any time. Any friend of Ron's is family here."
The phrase 'is family here' made something warm bloom in Harry's chest. This was what family dinners should be—loud, chaotic, full of love and laughter.
After dinner, whilst Molly orchestrated the washing up with the efficiency of a military commander, Arthur eagerly led Ethan out to the garden shed where the infamous flying Ford Anglia was housed.
"You two can come as well," Arthur called to Harry and Luna. "Though I warn you, it might get rather technical."
The shed was larger on the inside—obviously—and immaculately organised despite appearances. The blue Ford Anglia sat in the centre, gleaming under floating witched-lights.
"She's beautiful," Ethan said, and he meant it. The integration of magic into Muggle machinery was seamless, elegant even. "May I?"
At Arthur's eager nod, Ethan circled the vehicle slowly, his True Sight activated to examine the spell-work. "Remarkable. You've woven the Extension Charm directly into the chassis framework, and these runes..." He traced invisible patterns in the air above the bonnet. "Atmospheric manipulation for flight, but you've also incorporated stability charms that account for weight distribution changes. Very clever."
Arthur's face flushed with pleasure. "You can actually see the runic structure? Most wizards can't perceive that level of detail without specialised equipment."
"I have some experience with runic analysis," Ethan said mildly. "Arthur, have you considered approaching this from a resonance perspective? If you adjusted the harmonic frequency of the levitation charms to align with the Anglia's natural mechanical vibrations, you could reduce the power consumption by perhaps fifteen to twenty percent."
Arthur's eyes went wide. "I hadn't thought of that. The harmonic resonance could create a feedback loop that actually assists the spell-work rather than working against it..."
They dove into technical discussion whilst Harry and Luna examined the car with considerably less expertise but equal fascination.
"It's a lovely shade of blue," Luna observed, peering through the windows. "Though I think it might be slightly lonely, sitting here all by itself."
Harry grinned. "Maybe Mr. Weasley will take it for more flights now that it's finished."
Eventually, Ethan and Arthur emerged from their technical conversation, both looking energised despite the late hour.
"Ethan," Arthur said seriously, "I don't suppose... well, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office has been looking for consultants. People who understand both magical theory and Muggle technology. The work Atid Stella has been doing—integrating runic applications with scientific principles—it's exactly the sort of approach we need. Would you consider...?"
"A formal partnership between Atid Stella and your department?" Ethan finished thoughtfully. "I think that could be mutually beneficial, Arthur. We've been looking to expand our research into practical applications of Muggle-magical integration, and having Ministry backing would facilitate certain projects considerably."
Arthur beamed. "Wonderful! I'll draw up a proposal for my superiors."
"Oh, and there's a chap in America—Howard Sterling—who's been doing similar work. Perhaps we could arrange a three-way consultation?" Ethan acutely suggested "I think you two would get along famously."
As they made their way back to the house, Arthur chatting enthusiastically about future projects, Harry felt a deep sense of contentment. The Weasleys were genuine, warm, and welcoming in a way that felt utterly natural. And watching his father connect with Arthur over shared intellectual passions reminded Harry that Ethan, for all his reserve and careful planning, genuinely enjoyed this kind of collaboration.
That night, Harry bunked in Ron's room—a small space covered in Chudley Cannons posters—whilst Luna stayed with Ginny. The two girls could be heard giggling about something long into the night, and Harry smiled as he drifted off to sleep, Ron's snoring a comfortable backdrop.
August 13th, 1992, The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, 8:47 AM
The morning arrived with typical Weasley chaos. Errol, the family's aged owl, crashed into the kitchen window with a bundle of Hogwarts letters, causing Molly to shriek and Arthur to rush over with his wand drawn before realising it was just the post.
"Honestly, that bird will be the death of me," Molly muttered, rescuing the letters and distributing them around the breakfast table.
Harry's Hogwarts letter felt heavier than last year's—probably because it included the second-year book list. He opened it carefully:
Dear Mr Potter,
Please note that the new school year begins on 1 September. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.
Second-years will require:The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda GoshawkBreak with a Banshee by Gilderoy LockhartGadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy LockhartHolidays with Hags by Gilderoy LockhartTravels with Trolls by Gilderoy LockhartVoyages with Vampires by Gilderoy LockhartWanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy LockhartYear with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart
Harry blinked at the list. "Who's Gilderoy Lockhart?"
"Some famous author," Ron said dismissively, reading his own letter. "Writes about fighting Dark creatures. Hermione loves his books, she wrote me about them in her last letter."
Ginny, reading her first-year letter with barely contained excitement, looked up. "He's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher! It says so in my letter!"
"Seven books by the same author?" Ethan murmured, scanning the list over Harry's shoulder. "That's... unusual for a curriculum reading list. Most professors diversify their sources."
"He's supposed to be very good-looking," Molly said, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "I saw him on the cover of Witch Weekly last month. Very charming smile."
Arthur rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Yes, dear. I'm sure his smile is very relevant to his teaching credentials."
"Well," Molly said briskly, "we'll need to get to Diagon Alley today to pick up everyone's school things. Arthur, did you arrange the Floo powder?"
"All sorted," Arthur confirmed. "We can head over right after breakfast."
An hour later, they gathered in the kitchen fireplace—a tight squeeze for so many people, but the Weasleys managed with practised efficiency. Ethan had pulled Harry aside beforehand, his expression serious.
"Harry, the Floo Network can be disorienting if you're not used to it," Ethan explained. "The key is clarity and focus. Speak the destination clearly—'Diagon Alley'—and keep your elbows tucked in. Don't panic if you spin past other fireplaces; that's normal. And use Cognition if you feel yourself getting dizzy."
Harry nodded, gripping his pouch of Floo powder nervously. He watched as Fred and George went first, disappearing in a roar of emerald flames with whoops of excitement.
When Harry's turn came, he stepped into the fireplace, threw down the powder, and said clearly: "Diagon Alley!"
The spinning began immediately—a dizzying kaleidoscope of fireplaces rushing past. Harry felt his stomach lurch, panic beginning to rise. But he remembered Ethan's advice and activated Cognition, that familiar mental clarity settling over him like a cool breeze.
The blue moon visualisation appeared in his mind's eye, radiating calm. His breathing steadied. He kept his elbows tucked tight and his eyes fixed ahead rather than watching the spinning periphery.
With a final lurch, he stumbled out into bright sunlight and the familiar bustle of Diagon Alley, managing to keep his feet despite his momentum.
"Well done, Harry!" Ethan emerged from the fireplace behind him, not a hair out of place. "Excellent use of your mental disciplines. Most first-time Floo travellers arrive rather less gracefully."
Luna appeared next, looking slightly windswept but entirely unconcerned. "That was rather like being inside a kaleidoscope. The colours were lovely."
As the rest of the Weasleys arrived, Molly began organising everyone with military precision. "Right, we'll need to visit Gringotts first, then Flourish and Blotts for the books, Madam Malkin's for Ginny's robes—"
"If you don't mind, Molly," Ethan interjected politely as he seamlessy cast a Scourgify with a wave of his hand, under The Weasley amazement "I'd like to take Harry and Luna to Gringotts separately. Some financial matters to attend to."
"Of course, of course," Molly agreed. "We'll meet at Flourish and Blotts?"
As the Weasleys headed off toward the bank, Ethan guided Harry and Luna in a different direction—toward the shadowy mouth of a side street.
"Dad?" Harry asked uncertainly. "That's not the way to Gringotts."
"No," Ethan agreed. "But it's something I think you should see. This is Knockturn Alley."
Harry peered into the narrow, dimly lit street. The shops here looked decidedly less reputable than those on Diagon Alley—dusty windows displayed shrunken heads, evil-looking masks, and various instruments that Harry suspected were used for Dark magic.
"Knockturn Alley," Ethan explained, his voice taking on a professorial tone, "is not inherently evil, despite its reputation. It's simply where the magical community purchases items that are... less socially acceptable. Dark artefacts, yes, but also rare potion ingredients, obscure books, and specialised services that the more respectable establishments won't provide."
"Should we be here?" Harry asked nervously.
"We're not going in," Ethan assured him. "But you should know it exists. Understanding the full spectrum of magical society—including its darker corners—is important. Knockturn Alley serves a purpose. Some of the shops here deal in genuinely dangerous items, yes. But others simply cater to unpopular but not illegal practices. The line between Dark magic and merely unconventional magic is often blurrier than most people care to admit."
Luna tilted her head, studying the alley with interest. "The Wrackspurts are very thick here. But also some Nargles, which is odd. They usually don't like the same places."
"Indeed," Ethan said, a slight smile touching his lips. "The magical signature here is quite complex. But we've seen enough. Come—we do need to visit Gringotts, and then meet the Weasleys as promised."
As they walked back toward the gleaming white marble of Gringotts, Harry glanced back at Knockturn Alley once more, filing away this new knowledge about the wizarding world's less savoury aspects. It was then that a particular memory surface in his mind, 'Wandering Merchant...'
It was a valuable piece of information on he suspected would prove valuable in the years to come.