September 2nd, 1993, The Shrieking Shack, 2:17 AM
The Shrieking Shack lived up to its reputation for atmosphere if not its name.
Moonlight struggled through grimy windows, turning dust motes into silver constellations. The floorboards creaked with every shift of weight, and the walls bore the scars of decades—claw marks from Remus's transformations, water damage from rain finding gaps in the roof, the general decay of a building left deliberately abandoned.
Sirius Black sat on what had once been a bed frame, his prison robes exchanged for worn but clean Muggle clothing—dark jeans, a jumper that had seen better days, boots that suggested practicality over style. His long hair was tied back, revealing a face that, whilst still gaunt from Azkaban, carried more colour and life than it should have after ten years amongst Dementors.
He looked sane.
Not whole—the emotional scars were visible in the way his eyes tracked movement with predator wariness, in the tension that never quite left his shoulders, in the occasional twitch when shadows shifted wrong. But sane. Coherent. The hot-tempered, impulsive man he'd been in his youth had been tempered by suffering into something harder, more controlled.
Until Ethan Esther mentioned the change in plans.
"You said Remus would catch him on the train," Sirius's voice was quiet, but tension ran beneath it like wire pulled taut. "You said we'd have Peter immediately, that Remus would identify him, apprehend him, bring him in for questioning under Veritaserum. That was the plan, Ethan. That was what you Saw."
Ethan stood near the window, his dark-amber eyes reflecting moonlight in ways that made them seem to glow faintly. His posture was relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back, but something in the air around him suggested immense, carefully controlled power.
"Plans change," Ethan said mildly. "Variables shift. New information requires adaptation."
"New information?" Sirius's hands clenched. "What new information could possibly be more important than clearing my name and putting that rat in Azkaban where he belongs? I've been hiding here for weeks, watching through windows whilst Harry goes to classes, whilst Peter sits on a student's shoulder pretending to be a bloody pet—"
"Mordred Slythra."
The name dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water.
Sirius went very still. "What about him?"
"He's targeting Hogwarts. Almost certainly targeting Harry specifically." Ethan's voice remained calm, but his eyes had taken on that distant quality that suggested he was Seeing possibilities rather than just speaking. "We know almost nothing about him except that he escaped Azkaban, that he's a competent Death Eater who survived the first war, and that he's got orders—likely from contingencies Voldemort left in place—to observe Harry... Possibly more."
"So deal with him," Sirius said, his voice sharpening. "You're one of the most powerful wizards in Britain, you've got connections, you've got Atid Stella's resources—"
"And I can't use any of those directly without revealing capabilities I'd rather keep hidden." Ethan turned from the window, and Sirius felt the weight of his attention like physical pressure. "Think, Sirius. I can't simply show up at Hogwarts and apprehend Peter Pettigrew based on divination. 'I Saw that the Weasley's rat is actually an unregistered Animagus who's also a wanted fugitive' doesn't constitute legal evidence. It would raise questions about my abilities, about how I know, about what else I can See. Questions I'm not prepared to answer."
"Then how did you tip the Ministry about Slythra?" Sirius's jaw was tight.
"Through Sam. Samantheus Faramundo has legitimate reason to report divination-based intelligence—he's known to employ seers, he's got Ministry contacts, and his reputation allows for the occasional prediction without raising suspicion about the source." Ethan's mouth quirked slightly. "One such tip is useful. Two would be suspicious. Three would be actively investigated."
Sirius stood abruptly, his movements sharp with frustration. "So we just wait? Let Peter sit there, free, whilst—"
The air pressure changed.
It wasn't dramatic. No visible magic, no wand drawn, no incantation. Just a subtle shift in the atmosphere, in the quality of presence Ethan projected, that made Sirius's next words die in his throat.
Ethan's dark-amber eyes met Sirius's grey ones with perfect calm and absolute authority. "Sit. Down."
Sirius sat.
Not because he wanted to. Because something in that gaze, in that presence, suggested that continuing to stand would require more willpower than he currently possessed. There was mind magic there—subtle, expertly applied, not controlling his thoughts but definitely influencing his impulses.
'He's good,' Sirius thought with grudging respect even as anger still simmered. 'Better than I expected. No wonder he's managed to build what he has.'
"Your anger is understandable," Ethan said, his voice gentler now. "Ten years in Azkaban, two years on the run, and now when justice is within reach, I'm asking you to wait. But waiting serves multiple purposes."
He moved away from the window, settling onto a crate with the fluid grace of someone comfortable in his own body. "First: Peter is under observation. Remus has modified Spectrespecs—my design—that identify Animagi regardless of form. He knows exactly where Peter is at all times. The rat isn't escaping.
"Second: Peter's presence at Hogwarts gives us leverage. He doesn't know we know. He thinks he's safe, hidden amongst children. He's think you're dead. That makes him predictable.
"Third, and most importantly: Mordred Slythra is the unknown variable. He's dangerous, he's competent, and he's got objectives we don't fully understand. Until we know what he's planning, until we can counter whatever threat he poses to Harry, I need all pieces in play exactly where they are. Including you."
"Me." Sirius's voice was flat.
"You're watching Harry. Protecting him from threats that might emerge when neither Remus nor I can respond fast enough and should the rat behaviour change. You'll See it. And when the time comes..." Ethan's smile was cold, "...when Mordred's plans are revealed and countered, when the pieces have moved to optimal positions, then we'll take Peter. Publicly. Legally. With Veritaserum and witnesses and enough evidence that the Ministry can't ignore it."
The door to the Shack creaked open.
Remus Lupin stepped through, his wand lit with soft Lumos, his shabby professor's robes marked with chalk dust from what had likely been a late evening planning lessons. He looked between Ethan and Sirius, reading the tension immediately.
"I'm not interrupting anything important, am I?"
"Just explaining to Sirius why patience is a virtue," Ethan said dryly.
"Ah. The conversation where Sirius pretends he understands delayed gratification." Remus's mouth twitched. But his expression sobered as he turned to Sirius properly. "I confirmed it this morning. Used the modified Spectrespecs during breakfast. The rat sitting on Ronald Weasley's shoulder isn't a rat at all."
Sirius's hands clenched. "Peter."
"Peter Pettigrew. Alive, well, and apparently content to spend twelve years as a child's pet whilst you rotted in Azkaban." Remus's voice carried carefully controlled anger. "The Spectrespecs show Animagus signatures clearly—he's definitely transformed, definitely Peter."
He crossed the room to where Sirius sat, and for a long moment they simply looked at each other. Two old friends separated by twelve years of hell and misunderstanding, by Sirius's suspicion that Remus had been the spy and Remus's certainty that Sirius had been the traitor.
"I'm sorry," Remus said quietly. "I believed you'd betrayed James and Lily. I thought—when they announced you'd killed Peter and those Muggles—I thought the war had broken you, that Azkaban was exactly where you deserved to be. I'm sorry, Sirius."
Sirius stood slowly. His eyes were bright—not with tears, exactly, but with something close. "You thought I could betray Prongs? That I could murder his son?"
"The evidence was overwhelming. The Ministry said—"
"The Ministry didn't give me a trial," Sirius interrupted, but his voice held exhaustion rather than anger. "No Veritaserum, no questions, just straight to Azkaban because who needs due process when you've got an obvious culprit?" He shook his head. "I don't blame you for believing it, Moony. I blame the system that made it believable."
Remus pulled Sirius into a fierce hug. "We'll fix it. We'll clear your name. We'll make sure everyone knows the truth."
"Eventually," Sirius muttered into Remus's shoulder. But he returned the embrace, and when they separated, something in his posture had eased. Not healed—healing would take far more than one conversation—but acknowledged.
Ethan gave them a moment, his attention politely directed toward the window whilst the two old friends reconnected. Then he spoke, his voice cutting through the emotional atmosphere with gentle authority.
"When you're ready, we have plans to finalise."
Sirius and Remus separated, both wiping at their eyes with the self-consciousness of British men who'd been taught that overt emotion was somewhat embarrassing.
"The plan is simple," Ethan continued. "Remus, you watch Peter during school hours. Track his movements, his behaviour, anyone he interacts with. The moment he does anything unusual, anything that suggests he's planning to run or that he's been contacted by outside forces, you alert me immediately.
"Sirius, you watch at night. The Shrieking Shack has tunnel access to Hogwarts grounds via the Whomping Willow—Remus can provide the procedure to freeze the tree. You can patrol in Animagus form without attracting attention. Any sign of Mordred Slythra, any suspicious activity, anything that threatens Harry—you intervene if necessary and alert me."
"What about you?" Sirius asked.
"I'll be managing the larger picture. Tracking Mordred through divination, coordinating with Ministry contacts through Sam, ensuring that when we do move against Peter, it's with sufficient legal backing that my son doesn't spend his teenage years watching his godfather fight for exoneration." Ethan's expression hardened. "Harry's been through enough. I won't have him traumatised further by prolonged legal battles if I can avoid it."
"What exactly are we waiting for?" Remus asked. "What needs to happen with Mordred before we can move?"
"He needs to reveal his objective. Make his move. Show us what he's actually after so we can counter it." Ethan stood, preparing to leave. "Patience, gentlemen. We've waited twelve years. We can wait a few weeks more if it means Harry stays safe and Peter faces justice properly."
He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Sirius? If you absolutely must lurk around Hogwarts watching Harry, try to be less obvious about it. He's got this intuition. If you stare too intensely, he'll notice something's wrong. Plus..." Ethan threw him a vial. "it can change the fur color."
Sirius's answering grin was the first genuine expression of humour Ethan had seen from him. "I'll endeavour to lurk with subtlety."
"See that you do."
September 3rd, 1993, Hogwarts Grounds, 2:17 PM
The paddock behind Hagrid's hut had been cleared of its usual clutter—broken flowerpots, rusted cauldrons, mysterious bits of magical creature anatomy that no one wanted to examine too closely—and converted into something approximating a teaching space. A low fence enclosed perhaps a quarter-acre, and within it, a dozen hippogriffs preened and stamped with varying degrees of patience.
Harry stood with his friends—Ron, Hermione, Draco and Neville—amongst the third-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, watching Hagrid's obvious nervousness with sympathetic concern. The half-giant kept tugging at his moleskin coat, his wild beard quivering slightly, his beetle-black eyes darting between the students and the hippogriffs with equal anxiety.
"Right then!" Hagrid's voice boomed with attempted confidence. "Gather 'round, everyone. Today's lesson is about hippogriffs. Beautiful creatures, hippogriffs. Half horse, half eagle, an' proud as can be."
He gestured to the nearest hippogriff—a magnificent creature with stormy grey plumage fading to white on its haunches, eagle talons that looked capable of shredding steel, and orange eyes that tracked the students with keen intelligence.
"This here's Buckbeak," Hagrid continued. "Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know about hippogriffs—they're proud. Easily offended. Yeh approach 'em wrong, yeh insult 'em, they'll take yer head clean off."
Several students shuffled backwards nervously.
"The trick is respect," Hagrid said, his voice warming with genuine affection for the subject. "Yeh approach slow, yeh bow, yeh wait fer them ter bow back. Then—an' only then—yeh can get closer. Who wants ter go first?"
The silence was profound.
Harry watched Buckbeak with excitement. The boy had spent the summer working with a Golden Snidget and a Re'em. Compared to Osian's casual ability to accidentally demolish garden walls, a hippogriff was practically tame.
Harry raised his hand.
"Harry!" Hagrid's face lit up like sunrise. "Excellent! Come on then, don't be shy."
Harry stepped forward into the paddock, very aware of everyone watching. He could feel their attention—some curious, some worried, some from the Slytherins who'd joined halfway through Hagrid's introduction openly hoping for entertaining disaster.
Buckbeak regarded him with those fierce orange eyes, head tilted slightly, wings half-mantled in what might have been warning or might have been simple alertness.
Harry remembered Ethan's lessons. About respect and boundaries. About reading body language. About approaching magical creatures as equals rather than subordinates.
He stopped several feet from Buckbeak and bowed. Not a shallow nod, but a proper bow—back straight, head lowered, holding the position to show he meant it.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then Buckbeak's head lowered. His front legs bent. He returned the bow with unmistakable dignity.
"Excellent!" Hagrid was practically vibrating with pride. "Go on then, yeh can approach him now. Slow an' steady."
Harry moved forward, his hand extended, letting Buckbeak sniff his fingers before touching the creature's beak. The feathers were coarser than they looked, the underlying muscle powerful enough that Harry could feel it shift beneath his palm.
"Beautiful," Harry murmured. "You're absolutely beautiful, aren't you?"
Buckbeak made a sound—half chirp, half rumble—that suggested pleased agreement.
"Right then!" Hagrid clapped his enormous hands together. "Who's next? Don't be shy!"
Luna approached next, her movements carrying that particular quality of dreamlike focus she brought to creature interactions. Buckbeak responded to her bow with what might have been approval, and she spent several minutes simply stroking his neck whilst murmuring about Nargles and proper feather care.
Hermione followed, her bow more stilted (clearly memorised from a book) but earnest. Ron managed it despite visible terror. Draco approached with aristocratic grace that somehow translated well to hippogriff etiquette. Neville succeeded despite his nervous trembling. Even Astoria, cool and collected as always, earned Buckbeak's respect with her perfectly executed bow.
"Now," Hagrid said once everyone who wanted to had made introductions, "the real treat. Who wants ter ride him?"
Harry's hand went up before he'd consciously decided.
Moments later, he was mounted on Buckbeak's back, the creature's powerful muscles bunching beneath him as wings spread wide. Hagrid gave some instruction that Harry barely heard over the rushing in his ears, and then they were moving—cantering across the paddock, wings beating once, twice, and then they were airborne.
Flying on a broom was one thing. Flying on a living creature was entirely different.
Buckbeak climbed with lazy power, his wing-beats creating rhythm that Harry instinctively matched with his body's movement. The ground fell away—Hagrid's hut becoming toy-sized, the castle's towers rising to eye level, the lake spreading like hammered silver beneath them.
'This,' Harry thought with fierce joy, 'this is what flying is supposed to feel like.'
They circled the castle once, Buckbeak seeming to enjoy the flight as much as Harry, before beginning a gradual descent back toward the paddock.
And that's when Harry became aware of the attention.
Not the general attention of his classmates—that was expected, normal. But something else. A particular quality of focused interest from a group of older students who'd gathered near the paddock's edge. Fourth and fifth-year girls, mostly, their eyes tracking Harry's landing with expressions he couldn't quite read.
Appreciative, certainly. But something in the intensity of their gazes, in the way several of them whispered to each other whilst watching him, sent uncomfortable chills down Harry's spine.
'No,' Harry thought with growing horror. 'No, no, absolutely not.'
The moment Buckbeak touched down, Harry slid off with rather more haste than grace. He pulled his hood up—thankful for the autumn chill that made the gesture seem normal—and made a beeline for his friends, specifically positioning himself behind Hermione's slightly shorter frame as though she could shield him from unwanted attention.
"Harry?" Hermione glanced back, her brown eyes sharp with amusement and understanding. "Hiding?"
"Strategically repositioning," Harry muttered.
Draco, who'd witnessed the entire thing, made no attempt to hide his grin. "Harry, I do believe you've been noticed."
"Shut up."
"By several third-years who look ready to—"
"I-I will hex you. Right h-here. Don't think I won't."
Ron, demonstrating unprecedented emotional intelligence, simply clapped Harry's shoulder in silent masculine solidarity. Even he recognised when a mate needed rescue from unwanted female attention.
Across the paddock, Theodore Nott watched the entire interaction with visible disdain.
Nott was Slytherin through and through—sharp features, cold grey eyes, the particular expression of someone who'd been raised to believe bloodlines mattered more than capability. He stood with a small group of pure-blood Slytherins, his posture radiating contempt for Hagrid's lesson, for the subject matter, for the half-blood and Muggle-born students who'd successfully interacted with the hippogriffs.
"Right!" Hagrid called out. "Everyone else, form a queue! One at a time, approach the hippogriff of yer choice, remember ter bow—"
"This is ridiculous," Nott's voice carried across the paddock with aristocratic precision. "Teaching us to bow to animals. What's next, curtseying to house-elves?"
Several Slytherins laughed. Hagrid's face fell.
"Nott," Draco said quietly, warning in his tone. "Don't."
But Nott was committed to his performance now. He strode toward the nearest hippogriff—not Buckbeak, but a russet-coloured creature with fierce yellow eyes—with deliberate arrogance.
"Let's see what all the fuss is about," Nott said, loud enough for the class to hear. He stopped in front of the hippogriff and executed a mocking bow—shallow, insincere, his posture radiating contempt.
The hippogriff's eyes narrowed.
"There," Nott said, straightening. "That's done. Now—"
He reached out to touch the creature's beak.
"NO!" Hagrid bellowed, already moving. "Nott, don't—"
Too late.
The hippogriff's talons flashed. Not a killing strike—the creature was proud, not murderous—but a warning slash that caught Nott across the shoulder and sent him stumbling backwards with a cry of pain and outrage.
Chaos erupted.
Students scattered. The hippogriff mantled its wings, prepared to follow up if Nott proved stupid enough to approach again. Hagrid reached Nott in three enormous strides, his face white with horror.
And Draco, who'd been standing close to Nott, caught the backswing of the hippogriff's wing as it moved. The solid muscle and bone struck him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling with force that drove the air from his lungs.
Hermione moved. Her summer of martial arts training translated directly to crisis response—she was kneeling beside Draco before Harry had processed what happened, her hands already checking for injuries with practised efficiency.
"Draco! Can you breathe? Where does it hurt?"
Draco managed a wheezing gasp. "Chest... can't... breathe—"
"Ribs," Hermione said sharply. "Possibly broken. Hagrid, we need Madam Pomfrey!"
But she'd barely finished speaking when she spun toward Nott, her expression transforming from concern to fury. She rose with intent that promised violence—
Ron caught her arm. "Hermione, no!"
"He did this deliberately!" Hermione's voice shook with rage. "He insulted the hippogriff, he ignored Hagrid's instructions, and Draco got hurt because of his arrogance—"
"I know!" Ron kept his grip firm, still, how did she get such strength after just a summer. "But we need to focus! Draco needs the Hospital Wing, Hagrid needs help managing this before the Ministry gets involved, and you beating up Nott won't help anyone!"
Hermione stopped struggling, but her hands were still clenched into fists. "He deserves—"
"Yeah, he does. But later." Ron's voice was steady. "Priorities, Hermione."
She took a shaking breath and nodded, returning to Draco's side.
Harry, watching the scene unfold with mounting horror, understood immediately what this meant.
This wasn't just an injury. This was ammunition.
They'd go after Hagrid. Try to get him sacked, maybe even arrested. And the hippogriff—beautiful, proud Buckbeak, who'd done nothing wrong, who'd simply responded to deliberate insult—they'd want him destroyed.
Harry's mind raced through possibilities. Ethan needed to know. Immediately. If there was any way to prevent this from spiraling into disaster, it would require his father's connections, his influence before they solidified into catastrophe.
Whilst Hagrid levitated the injured Draco toward the castle, Nott had already been escorted by Professor Snape, who'd appeared with suspicious speed, whilst Hermione and Ron followed to make sure their friend received proper care, whilst the other students dispersed with excited chatter about the Drama, Harry pulled parchment and quill from his bag.
His hands shook slightly as he wrote:
Dad—
Emergency. Hagrid's first lesson went wrong. Theodore Nott deliberately insulted and approached a hippogriff incorrectly despite explicit instructions. The creature defended itself—Nott got scratched, Draco got knocked down by accident. Draco's hurt (ribs maybe broken), but both will recover.
But Nott has Ministry connections. They're going to use this against Hagrid. Might try to have him sacked or the hippogriff destroyed. Please help. I don't want Hagrid to lose his job over a student's arrogance. And Buckbeak didn't do anything wrong.
The creature was defending itself from deliberate insult. That has to count for something.
Please.
—Harry
He sealed the letter, called Hedwig from the nearby Owlery window with a sharp whistle, and sent her off toward London with instructions to find Ethan as quickly as possible.
Then Harry stood in the empty paddock, watching the hippogriffs settle back into their preening and stamping, and tried very hard not to think about all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong.
Third year was three days old.
And already, the consequences were mounting.