July 15th, 1993, 221B Baker Street, London, 9:47 AM
The crystalline chime echoed through Harry's bedroom, followed by Ron's voice crackling through the peculiar device on his nightstand.
"Harry? Harry, you there? This thing working properly? Hello?"
Harry grabbed the magical phone—a prototype that Arthur Weasley and Howard had been developing since their cooperation with Atid Stella—and pressed the activation rune. The smooth black stone warmed under his fingers, and Ron's voice immediately clarified.
"Ron! Yeah, I can hear you. How's Egypt?"
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! We're staying near the pyramids, and Fred and George have already tried to sneak into three tombs the goblins have sealed off. Mum nearly had a heart attack when Bill told her." Ron's enthusiasm crackled through the connection. "Bill's been showing us curse-breaking techniques. Did you know some of the older tombs have curses that can turn your bones to sand? Sand, Harry! That's mental!"
Harry grinned, settling back against his pillows. The morning sun streamed through his window, warming the room in that perfect summer way that made everything feel peaceful and lazy. "That sounds amazing. Have you seen any mummies?"
"Loads! Though they're not as exciting as you'd think. Mostly just wrapped-up dead people in boxes. Percy's been taking notes on everything like he's writing a book. Ginny's fascinated by the hieroglyphics... keeps trying to translate them with her Ancient Runes books, but Bill says she's got the wrong reference materials."
"How is Ginny?" Harry asked carefully. The youngest Weasley had been through an ordeal with Tom Riddle's diary, and Harry worried about lasting effects.
"Better, actually. Mum was worried the trip might be too much, but I think getting away from Hogwarts helped. She's laughing again, playing chess with Percy... badly, but still. The mind healer Mum took her to said fresh experiences would help, and Egypt's certainly fresh." Ron paused. "She asked about you, actually. Wanted to thank you properly, but I think she's still embarrassed about the whole diary thing."
"She shouldn't be," Harry said firmly. "None of that was her fault."
"That's what we keep telling her. Anyway, enough about my family trauma... what're you doing for summer? Ethan teaching you anything interesting?"
"Dad says he's going to teach me something 'quite thrilling,' but he won't tell me what." Harry's voice carried his frustration. "I've been guessing for days. Divination? Advanced duelling? Maybe Animagus transformation?"
Ron laughed. "Knowing your Dad, it's probably something completely unexpected. Like ancient runic theory or the history of cauldron-making."
"Don't even joke about that."
"Speaking of others, heard from Hermione?"
"Got a letter last week. She's in France with her parents... Paris, Lyon, some other cities I can't pronounce. She's learning French and apparently visiting every magical library she can find. Very Hermione behaviour."
"Of course she is. That girl can't take a normal holiday to save her life." Ron's fondness was evident despite his teasing. "What about Malfoy?"
"Draco's with uncle Sam... Samantheus Faramundo. Learning about Healing magic through uncle's connections. He wrote that he's been observing actual Healers at St Mungo's, sitting in on consultations for interesting cases. Says it's fascinating."
"Good for him. Never thought I'd say this, but Malfoy's actually decent when he's not being a git." Ron paused, and Harry heard muffled voices in the background. "That's Mum calling... breakfast is ready. Egyptian breakfast, Harry! You should see the food here. I'll call again next week?"
"Definitely. Stay safe. Don't let Fred and George get you cursed."
"No promises!" The connection clicked off with a soft chime.
Harry set the phone back on his nightstand, smiling. Ron's enthusiasm was infectious even through magical communication. The device was remarkable—clearer than Floo calls, more convenient than owls, and far less messy than both.
Arthur and Howard were onto something revolutionary.
His thoughts drifted to Luna. She was travelling with Xenophilius, researching magical creatures across Britain and parts of Scandinavia. Her learning sessions with Ethan had been postponed until August, which meant Harry wouldn't see her for another few weeks.
He missed her.
Not in a desperate, aching way, but in the quiet moments when something interesting happened and his first thought was "Luna would find this fascinating." They exchanged letters regularly—hers filled with sketches of creatures and enthusiastic descriptions of landscapes, his with updates about training and mundane life—but it wasn't quite the same as her presence.
'August,' Harry reminded himself. 'Just a few more weeks.'
Downstairs, he could hear Jasper chirping—the Golden Snidget had claimed the solarium as his territory and spent mornings singing complex melodies that Ethan swore carried magical resonance. Somewhere further off, Osian's heavy footsteps suggested the Re'em was wandering the grounds, probably terrorising the garden gnomes again.
Harry dressed quickly and headed downstairs, following the scent of breakfast toward the dining room. He'd check if the Daily Prophet had arrived—Ethan subscribed, and Harry had developed a habit of reading it over morning tea.
July 15th, 1993, Dining Room, 10:23 AM
The Daily Prophet lay spread across the dining table, and Harry's eyes immediately found the photograph that dominated the second page.
MINISTRY EMPLOYEE WINS GRAND PRIZE GALLEON DRAW
The article featured a picture of the entire Weasley family standing in front of a pyramid. Arthur and Molly stood in the centre, beaming, whilst their children arranged themselves around them in varying states of excitement. Bill looked professional even in casual robes, Charlie was grinning broadly, Percy stood with characteristic rigid posture, the twins were mid-gesture (probably telling a joke), Ron looked sunburnt and happy, and Ginny smiled—a real smile that made Harry's chest warm with relief.
And there, perched on Ron's shoulder, was Scabbers. The rat looked old and mangy even in the photograph, its whiskers twitching as it surveyed its surroundings with beady eyes.
Arthur Weasley, employee in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, has won the annual Daily Prophet Galleon Draw. Mr Weasley and his family will use the seven hundred Galleon prize to visit their eldest son William in Egypt, where he works as a curse-breaker for Gringotts Bank...
Harry smiled at the article, genuinely pleased for the Weasleys. Seven hundred Galleons was a small fortune, and they deserved good luck after everything they'd been through.
"Morning, Harry."
Ethan entered the dining room carrying two cups of tea, the fragrant steam rising in delicate spirals. He set one beside Harry's plate and kept the other, settling into his usual chair with the fluid grace that never seemed hurried despite being efficient.
"Morning, Dad. Did you see the Prophet? Ron's family won the Galleon Draw."
"Did they?" Ethan's tone was mildly interested, the way it always was when he was only half-paying attention. He reached for the paper, and Harry watched as his father's dark-amber eyes scanned the article.
Then Ethan went very still.
It was subtle—most people wouldn't notice—but Harry had spent years learning to read his father's micro-expressions. The slight narrowing of Ethan's eyes, the way his fingers tightened fractionally on the teacup, the sudden focus that indicated his mind had locked onto something significant.
"Dad?"
"Hmm?" Ethan's voice remained casual, but his eyes never left the photograph. Specifically, Harry realised, never left the rat on Ron's shoulder.
Harry watched as Ethan set down his teacup with precise care and reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing his silver pocket watch. The gesture was so smooth, so practised, that it barely registered as unusual.
Ethan held the watch by its chain, letting it dangle freely. His eyes unfocused slightly—the expression Harry recognised as Ethan accessing his Seer abilities—and he murmured something too quiet for Harry to hear.
The pocket watch began to swing.
Not randomly, but with purpose. Counterclockwise. A slow, deliberate circle that made Harry's skin prickle with awareness of magic at work.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He murmured another question—again too quiet—and the watch reversed direction. Clockwise now, gaining speed, the silver catching the morning light as it spun.
"Dad?" Harry tried again, concern creeping into his voice. "What's wrong?"
Ethan pocketed the watch with a smooth motion and looked up, his expression carefully neutral. "Nothing's wrong, exactly. But I need to handle something. Urgently." He stood, already moving toward his study. "Finish your breakfast, Harry. I'll be occupied for a few hours, but we'll begin your new training this afternoon."
"But what—"
"This afternoon," Ethan repeated, his tone brooking no argument. Then, softer: "It's nothing dangerous. Just... a situation that requires immediate attention."
He disappeared into his study before Harry could ask more questions, the door closing with a soft click that somehow sounded ominous.
Harry looked back at the Prophet, at the photograph of Ron's family, at the rat on Ron's shoulder. Whatever Ethan had seen, whatever his divination had confirmed, it had something to do with that picture.
But what could possibly be urgent about the Weasleys' holiday photograph?
July 15th, 1993, Esther Manor Study, 10:47 AM
Ethan closed the study door and immediately cast privacy charms—ones strong enough to block even determined eavesdropping. Then he returned to his desk, spread the Prophet photograph before him, and allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction.
Peter Pettigrew.
The rat on Ronald Weasley's shoulder wasn't just any rat. It was Peter Pettigrew, Animagus, traitor, and the man responsible for Lily and James Potter's deaths. The man who'd framed Sirius Black and condemned him to Azkaban whilst living in comfort and safety as the Weasley family pet.
Ethan's intuition had recognised something wrong about the rat immediately—the eyes were too intelligent, the posture too aware, most likely the missing finger. And the divination had confirmed it.
Is this rat an Animagus? Counterclockwise for no, clockwise for yes. The watch had spun clockwise with enough force to suggest screaming affirmation.
Is this rat Peter Pettigrew? The watch had nearly torn itself from Ethan's fingers in its violent clockwise rotation.
Twelve years. The traitor had been hiding as a pet rat for twelve years.
Ethan pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing in the coded script he used for sensitive correspondence. The message was simple:
G— The rat with the Weasley family. Time to set the trap. —E
He attached the Prophet clipping to the letter, sealed it with his personal mark, and addressed it to a contact point in Knockturn Alley. Galeroy, the wandering merchant. The man who'd been serving as intermediary between Ethan and Sirius Black for the past two years.
Sirius had been searching for Peter Pettigrew across the globe, following thin leads and cold trails whilst remaining hidden from Ministry detection. Ethan had provided what information he could—carefully, subtly, through channels that couldn't be traced back to him. But this...
This was the golden cicada's skin.
In Chinese strategy, "shedding the golden cicada's skin" meant creating a diversion—making your enemy believe you were still in one place whilst you actually moved freely elsewhere.
Ethan summoned Hedwig and attached the letter. "Knockturn Alley. Galeroy's usual location. Go swiftly."
The snow owl departed through the open window with powerful wing-beats, and Ethan returned to his desk to plan the next moves.
Peter Pettigrew would come back to Britain. And when he did, Ethan would ensure that Sirius Black finally got the justice he'd been denied twelve years ago.
Ethan's contemplation flashed in his eyes, his expression remained cold and calculating.
July 28th, 1993, Outskirts of Wales, 11:34 PM
The moon hung low and full over the Welsh countryside, casting silver light across rocky terrain that turned increasingly treacherous as it approached the cliffs. The sound of the sea far below was a constant roar, waves crashing against stone with primordial fury.
Kingsley Shacklebolt ran with the easy grace of a trained Auror, his purple robes billowing behind him as he led his team across the rough ground. Four other Aurors followed—Dawlish, Proudfoot, Savage, and a newer recruit named Tonks whose hair was currently a cautious brown rather than her usual vibrant colours.
Their quarry was ahead, moving fast but not fast enough. They'd been tracking Sirius Black ever since his escape, ever since reports placed him near Hogsmeade. The trail had led them across Scotland, through the Highlands, and now down into Wales.
"He's heading for the cliffs," Proudfoot called out, breathing hard. "Trying to trap himself?"
"Or forcing us into a corner," Kingsley responded grimly. "Stay alert. Black's desperate, and desperate men are dangerous."
They crested a rise, and there he was.
Sirius Black stood at the cliff's edge, perhaps twenty feet from where the land simply... ended. Beyond him was nothing but air and the violent sea below. The moonlight illuminated his face—gaunt, hollow-cheeked, with eyes that burned with something that might have been madness or determination or both.
His prison robes were tattered, hanging off a frame that had once been strong but was now skeletal from Azkaban's torments and months of running. His long, matted hair whipped in the sea wind, and his wand—somehow acquired despite his escape—was held loosely in one hand.
"Sirius Black!" Kingsley's voice carried the weight of authority. "It's finally over... You're surrounded. There's nowhere to run. Lower your wand and surrender peacefully."
Sirius laughed—a sound like breaking glass, sharp and jagged. "Surrender? So you can send me back to that hell? So I can spend another twelve years being tortured by Dementors for a crime I didn't commit?"
"You were convicted by a jury of your peers—"
"I was convicted without a trial!" Sirius's voice rose to a shout. "They threw me in Azkaban without trial, without Veritaserum, without a single chance to prove my innocence! And now you want me to surrender peacefully?"
Dawlish moved to flank left, and Sirius's wand tracked the movement with frightening speed. "Don't. Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to fight Aurors. I'm not your enemy."
"You're an escaped convict—"
"I'm an innocent man!" Sirius took a step backward, closer to the cliff's edge. Pebbles skittered over the side, vanishing into darkness. "I never betrayed James and Lily. It was Peter—it was always Peter—but no one listened. No one cared. The war was over, and they needed someone to blame."
"If you're innocent," Kingsley said, his voice carefully reasonable, "then come in peacefully. We can arrange a trial. Veritaserum. A proper investigation."
"Can you?" Sirius's laugh was bitter. "Can you really promise that? Or will I end up back in Azkaban whilst the Ministry 'investigates' for who knows how long?" He shook his head. "No. No more cages. No more Dementors. Never again."
He took another step backward.
The cliff edge was less than five feet behind him now.
"Black, don't be stupid," Proudfoot warned. "You jump, you die. Is that really how you want this to end?"
"Better than Azkaban," Sirius said quietly. "At least death is quick."
But his eyes... his eyes were calculating. Measuring distances. Watching the Aurors' positions. Planning something.
Kingsley's instincts screamed warning. "Everyone, defensive positions! He's going to—"
Sirius Black raised his wand to the sky and cast a spell that blazed like a comet—bright silver light that shot upward and exploded into a constellation of smaller lights, each one a different colour, each one spelling out letters that hung burning against the night sky:
THE RAT IS THE KEY. PETTIGREW LIVES. FIND THE RAT.
Then Sirius Black stepped backward off the cliff.
His body disappeared over the edge, swallowed by darkness and the roar of waves far below.
"NO!" Tonks rushed forward, but Kingsley caught her arm.
"Careful! The edge is unstable!"
They approached cautiously, wands lit, and peered over the cliff. Far below, the sea churned white with violence. There was no sign of a body, no indication that anyone could have survived such a fall.
"Did he...?" Dawlish's voice was shaken.
"He fell," Kingsley said grimly. "Whether he died on impact or drowned afterward..." He looked up at the message still burning in the sky, the words beginning to fade but still visible. "What in Merlin's name did he mean by that?"
"The rat is the key," Proudfoot read aloud. "Pettigrew lives. Find the rat." He shook his head. "The man was mad. Azkaban broke him."
But Kingsley stared at those burning words with an expression that suggested he was thinking very hard about something that didn't quite add up.
"Sir?" Tonks ventured. "Should we... should we search for the body?"
"Maritime Aurors will handle that. We need to report this to the Ministry immediately." Kingsley took one last look at the message, committing it to memory. "And someone needs to pull the old case files on Sirius Black. Something about this doesn't feel right."
The message finally faded, leaving only moonlight and the sound of waves against stone.
And somewhere far below, hidden by darkness and spray, something splashed into the water with far more control than a falling body should possess.
Far away a certain gentleman hidden under the guise of 'The Blue Magician' was watching everything whilst calmly weaving nigh indistinguishable illusion surrounding the cliff.
But the Aurors were already leaving, already heading back to report the death of Sirius Black, never knowing that the escaped convict had just performed the most audacious disappearing act in recent magical history.
The trap had been set.
The rat had been revealed.
And the game—the real game—was only just beginning.