August 13th, 1992, Diagon Alley, London, 10:17 AM
The morning sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley as Ethan, Harry, and Luna emerged from Gringotts, their money pouches considerably heavier.
The street bustled with activity—witches and wizards of all ages hurrying between shops, owls swooping overhead with parcels clutched in their talons, and the occasional magical mishap sending coloured sparks shooting into the air.
Harry was just adjusting his hood—a habitual gesture when surrounded by crowds—when a familiar booming voice called out above the general din.
"Harry! Mr Esther! Miss Lovegood!"
Hagrid's massive form emerged from the throng like a ship parting waves, his beetle-black eyes crinkling with pleasure.
Beside him, looking considerably smaller but no less excited, was Hermione Granger, her bushy hair even more voluminous than Harry remembered, possibly due to the humid summer air.
"Hagrid!" Harry's face lit up despite his nervousness while Luna offered the half-giant one of her characteristic dreamy smiles.
"Bin shoppin' fer school supplies, have yeh?" Hagrid asked, his grin splitting his wild beard. "Found Hermione here outside Flourish and Blotts, waitin' fer her parents. Thought we'd take a stroll, see who we might run into."
Ethan inclined his head in greeting, his dark amber eyes warming slightly. "Good morning, Hagrid. It's been some time."
"That it has, that it has," Hagrid agreed, his expression growing more thoughtful. "Not since... well, must've bin back when yeh were still that Gloomy Genius everyone whispered about. Though I never understood why they called yeh that—yeh were always right pleasant to me. Treated me with more respect than most, if I'm honest."
Ethan's mouth quirked into a slight smile, though something distant flickered in his eyes. "You were one of the few who saw past the reputation, Hagrid. I've always appreciated that."
Hagrid's face grew even more sentimental, his voice dropping to something approaching softness—though with Hagrid, that still carried clearly. "An' that lovely lass yeh used to bring 'round sometimes. Little Sunflower, I used ter call her. Always so bright an' cheerful, like she carried her own bit o' sunshine wherever she went.
I'm... sorry to hear about what happened. Aelia, weren't it?"
The name hung in the air like a bell's last resonance.
Ethan's expression didn't change—or rather, it changed so minutely that only someone watching very closely would notice the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders.
Harry, who'd become adept at reading his father's subtle tells, saw the grief flash through those dark amber eyes before being carefully locked away.
"Yes," Ethan said quietly, his voice perfectly controlled. "Aelia... She would have been pleased to know you remembered her fondly, Hagrid. She always spoke warmly of you."
'Little Sunflower,' Harry thought, his chest tightening with sympathetic ache, the image he saw the morning he woke up in Ethan's house resurfaced. He'd known his father had loved someone before, someone who'd died. But hearing Hagrid speak of her with such obvious affection made it more real, more painful. 'She must have been wonderful, to make Dad smile like that.'
Luna, with her uncanny perception, had gone very still. Her grey eyes were fixed on Ethan with unusual focus, and she reached out to gently touch Harry's hand, a gesture of comfort for what she sensed in the moment.
Hagrid, realising he'd touched on painful memories, cleared his throat roughly. "Right, well. She were a good'un, she was. An' I reckon she'd be right proud o' what yeh've done with young Harry here."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Ethan said, his composure fully restored. "That means more than you know."
Hermione, who'd been watching this exchange with the intense focus she brought to all new information, seemed to sense the need for a topic change. She brightened immediately, turning to Harry with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been waiting impatiently to speak.
"Harry! Luna! How was your summer? I've been absolutely dying to talk to someone about the new curriculum—I've already read through all the required texts, of course, and Lockhart's books are simply fascinating, though I do think his chapter on dealing with Banshees could have used more historical context, and—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted gently, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "You've already read all of them?"
"Well, naturally," Hermione said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "School starts in less than three weeks and I'm always prepared. Haven't you started yet?"
Luna's answering smile was serene. "I've been reading other things. Teach- Professor Esther has me studying theoretical Divination applications. The required texts seemed rather basic by comparison."
Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly—not with hostility, but with the competitive edge that appeared whenever academic matters were discussed. "Basic? But Lockhart's accounts of his encounters with Dark creatures are incredibly detailed—"
"Are they?" Ethan murmured, so quietly that Hermione almost missed it. His expression had gone thoughtful, analytical.
"Where are you lot headed?" Hagrid asked, diplomatically steering the conversation before Hermione could launch into a full defence of Gilderoy Lockhart's literary merits.
"Flourish and Blotts," Ethan replied. "We still need to acquire the required texts for the new term."
Hermione's face lit up like a Lumos charm. "Oh! That's perfect! Gilderoy Lockhart is doing a book signing there today—at noon, I think. I've been hoping to meet him. He's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, you know, and he's accomplished so much. Would you mind terribly if I came along?"
Harry glanced at Luna, who shrugged with her characteristic dreaminess. "The more the merrier," Luna said. "Though I do hope the Wrackspurts aren't too thick in the bookshop. They do love crowded places."
"Right then," Hagrid rumbled. "I'll walk with yeh that far. Got ter pick up a few things meself—Flesh-Eatin' Slug Repellent, mostly. Bin havin' terrible trouble with 'em in the cabbage patch."
As they made their way through the crowded street, Hermione launched into an enthusiastic monologue about Gilderoy Lockhart that would have impressed even the most devoted fan.
"He's won Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times," Hermione explained, her bushy hair bouncing as she walked. "And he's an Order of Merlin, Third Class, and he's done the most incredible things—defeating the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, exposing the Bandon Banshee as a fraud, curing a Transylvanian village of a zombie infestation—"
"Remarkable," Ethan said neutrally, though Harry noticed his father's eyes had taken on that distant, calculating quality that appeared when he was analysing something. "One man, accomplishing so much in such a relatively short time. The statistical probability alone is... interesting."
Hermione frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Simply that most wizards spend decades developing expertise in a single area," Ethan replied mildly. "Defeating a werewolf requires entirely different skill sets than curing a zombie infestation or exposing a banshee. It's unusual for one individual to have mastered such diverse challenges."
Luna hummed thoughtfully. "The Blibbering Humdingers are having a field day with his name. They always appear around people who aren't quite what they seem."
"What are you suggesting?" Hermione asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice.
"Nothing concrete," Ethan assured her. "Merely observations. I find it prudent to approach extraordinary claims with healthy scepticism until evidence supports them."
Harry, listening to this exchange whilst keeping his hood up against the jostling crowd, found his own curiosity piqued. 'Dad's suspicious. And if Dad's suspicious, there's usually a good reason. But what could be wrong with someone who's written books about fighting Dark creatures?'
They rounded a corner, and Flourish and Blotts came into view. The bookshop was even more crowded than usual, with a queue of witches stretching out the door and halfway down the street. A large banner hung above the entrance: GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.
"Oh, look at the crowd!" Hermione squeaked excitedly. "We should get in line now if we want good spots—"
"We're just here for the books," Harry said quickly, already feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. "I don't need an autograph or anything."
"But Harry, he's going to be teaching us! Don't you want to make a good impression?"
"I make better impressions when I'm not surrounded by hundreds of people," Harry muttered, unconsciously pulling his hood lower.
Ethan placed a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder. "We'll acquire the necessary texts efficiently and depart."
They pushed their way inside—or rather, Hagrid pushed, and they followed in his considerable wake. The shop was packed with witches of all ages, many clutching copies of Lockhart's books and giggling excitedly.
Photographs of the same handsome, wavy-haired wizard adorned every available surface, each one flashing dazzling smiles and winking outrageously.
Ethan's eyes swept the shop with methodical precision, his True Sight activated just enough to read the ambient magical signatures. His expression grew progressively more unimpressed.
'Interesting,' Ethan thought, observing the wizard holding court at a central table. 'Very interesting indeed.'
Gilderoy Lockhart sat behind a mountain of his own books, dressed in robes of forget-me-not blue that matched his eyes perfectly. His teeth gleamed impossibly white as he signed copies with an elaborate, looping signature, pausing frequently to pose for photographs with eager witches.
Everything about him screamed carefully constructed image—from the artfully dishevelled hair to the precisely timed smiles.
But it was what Ethan's True Sight revealed that was most telling.
Lockhart's magical signature was... mediocre. Not weak, precisely, but nowhere near the level required for the feats described in his books. More damningly, there were faint traces of memory charm residue clinging to him like perfume—not recent, but persistent enough to suggest frequent use.
'A fraud,' Ethan concluded with clinical detachment. 'A charlatan trading on stolen stories, most likely acquired through memory modification of the actual heroes. Skilled enough with memory charms to be dangerous, but otherwise unremarkable.'
The disdain in Ethan's dark amber eyes was subtle but unmistakable to those who knew him well.
Luna had drifted closer to Ethan, tilting her head as she studied Lockhart with her characteristic unfocused gaze. "The Wrackspurts absolutely adore him," she murmured. "They're swarming around his head like bees. And there's something else—something borrowed about his aura. Like he's wearing someone else's accomplishments."
Harry, positioned between his father and Luna, absorbed their observations with growing wariness. 'Dad thinks he's lying. And Luna sees something wrong with him. That's... that's not good.'
"What do you mean, borrowed?" Harry asked quietly, trusting Luna's perceptions even when they seemed strange.
"Like a cuckoo in another bird's nest," Luna explained dreamily. "Taking credit for eggs it didn't lay. Though I suppose that's rather harsh—cuckoos don't know any better. He does."
Ethan allowed himself a slight smile at Luna's apt metaphor. "An astute observation, Miss Lovegood."
Hermione had overheard at least part of this exchange, and her expression had grown troubled. "You can't possibly think he's a fraud? He's won awards! He's written seven books!"
"Awards can be purchased or politically influenced," Ethan said mildly. "And books can be ghostwritten or, in more insidious cases, based on others' experiences appropriated through less than ethical means."
"But—"
Whatever Hermione was about to say was cut off by a commotion near the front of the shop. Cameras began flashing more frantically, and a photographer was shouting something about getting a good shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Lockhart's magically amplified voice rang out. "What an absolute pleasure to see such enthusiasm! Now, I understand there may be some young students here today, particularly those who'll be lucky enough to have me as their professor this year—"
His eyes swept the crowd, clearly searching for potential publicity opportunities. They passed over Harry without recognition—the boy's hood was up, his face shadowed, just another anonymous figure in the crowd.
'Thank Merlin,' Harry thought fervently, pressing slightly closer to Ethan.
They managed to locate the required textbooks relatively quickly—seven copies of Lockhart's various works, along with the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. Ethan paid for them with barely concealed distaste, as though the galleons spent on such rubbish personally offended him.
It was as they were making their way back toward the exit that another commotion erupted.
"Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley."
The voice cut through the general noise with aristocratic disdain. Harry turned to see Lucius Malfoy standing near the front of the shop, his cold grey eyes fixed on Mr Weasley with obvious contempt. Draco was nowhere to be seen—presumably off shopping elsewhere—but Lucius's presence alone was enough to command attention.
Arthur Weasley had been helping Ginny select her first-year books when Lucius approached. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop several degrees.
"Lucius," Arthur said curtly, his usually cheerful demeanour evaporating.
"I'm surprised to see you in this establishment," Lucius drawled, examining his walking stick with affected disinterest. "I'd have thought the Weasleys couldn't afford such... extravagances. Though I see you're making do with second-hand goods, as usual." His eyes flicked dismissively toward Ginny's cauldron, which contained several obviously used textbooks.
Arthur's face flushed red. "There's nothing wrong with second-hand books, Lucius. At least my children are taught to value things beyond their price tags."
"How wonderfully... noble of you," Lucius replied, his tone making the word 'noble' sound like an insult. "Though I suppose one must take pride in something, even if it's only one's poverty."
"Better poor and decent than wealthy and rotten," Arthur shot back, his hand moving toward his wand.
Mrs Weasley appeared from between the bookshelves, her face pale. "Arthur, please, not here—"
But it was too late. Lucius had said something else—something Harry couldn't quite hear—and Arthur lunged forward with a snarl. His fist connected with Lucius's jaw with a satisfying crack, and then chaos erupted.
Books flew everywhere as the two wizards grappled. Lucius's walking stick clattered to the floor, and Mrs Weasley was shrieking for them to stop. Ginny stood frozen, her cauldron clutched in her arms, eyes wide with shock.
"Break it up, there, gents, break it up—"
Hagrid waded into the fray, his massive hands separating the two men as easily as one might part curtains. He lifted them bodily, holding each at arm's length whilst they continued to struggle.
"Enough!" Hagrid roared, his voice shaking the bookshelves. "This is a bookshop, not a tavern brawl!"
In the confusion—books scattered across the floor, people pressing forward to see, the photographer's camera flashing frantically—no one noticed Lucius Malfoy's free hand move with practiced swiftness. He snatched up a battered black diary from his robes and, in one fluid motion whilst everyone's attention was on the fighting, dropped it into Ginny's cauldron amongst her second-hand Transfiguration textbooks.
No one noticed except two people.
Luna's grey eyes tracked the movement with the unerring focus of someone who saw things others missed. "Oh," she breathed quietly. "That's not good."
And Ethan, whose True Sight missed nothing when actively engaged, saw the diary's dark magical signature flare briefly as it settled amongst Ginny's belongings. His eyes narrowed fractionally, his expression growing colder.
'So that's how you're doing it,' Ethan thought, watching Lucius with clinical interest. 'Using the chaos as cover to plant it. Clever, if utterly contemptible.'
Hagrid had finally managed to separate the two men completely, though both were dishevelled and breathing hard. Arthur's robes were torn, and Lucius had a split lip that would have looked undignified on anyone else but somehow only made him appear more dangerous.
"That's quite enough o' that," Hagrid said firmly. "Mr Malfoy, I think yeh'd best be goin'. And Arthur, yeh need ter calm down."
Lucius straightened his robes with jerky, furious movements. His cold grey eyes swept the watching crowd with unconcealed contempt. "Indeed. I wouldn't want to lower myself further by prolonging this... unfortunate encounter."
He retrieved his walking stick with an angry jerk, then turned to leave. But as he did, his gaze landed on Ethan, who'd remained perfectly still throughout the entire altercation, observing with detached interest.
For a moment, Lucius's expression shifted—surprise flickered across his aristocratic features, followed by something that might have been calculation or perhaps wariness. He'd clearly not expected to see Ethan Leonard Esther here, certainly not calmly watching whilst he enacted his plot.
Ethan met Lucius's gaze with perfect composure. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiled—not warmly, but with the professional courtesy of one businessman acknowledging another. It was a smile that said I see exactly what you've done, and I'm choosing not to intervene. For now.
Lucius's eyes narrowed fractionally, his mind clearly racing through implications. Then he inclined his head in the barest acknowledgment, turned on his heel, and strode from the shop with his robes billowing dramatically behind him.
The crowd began to disperse, muttering excitedly about the fight they'd just witnessed. Mrs Weasley was fussing over Arthur whilst simultaneously scolding him, and Ginny clutched her cauldron closer, still pale from the confrontation.
Harry looked up at his father, confusion clear in his green eyes. "Dad? What was that about?"
"Politics," Ethan said quietly, his dark amber eyes still fixed on the door through which Lucius had departed. "Ancient grudges and modern machinations"