December 24th, 1993, Hogwarts Grounds, 7:34 AM
The lake had frozen overnight—not completely, but enough that ice crept from the shores in delicate crystalline fingers, whilst the water beyond remained dark and cold. Snow lay thick across the grounds, pristine and untouched save for the tracks left by a few hardy students brave enough to venture out before breakfast.
Harry and Luna walked hand-in-hand along the shore, their breath misting in the December air, Jasper tucked warmly in Harry's hood and chirping occasional commentary on the scenery. They'd been out since dawn, too excited to sleep, waiting for Ethan's arrival with the particular restless energy that came from anticipation mixed with winter cold.
"Your fingers are freezing," Harry observed, stopping to pull off his gloves. "Here. Take these."
"Then your hands will be cold," Luna pointed out, but she accepted the gloves anyway, her smile soft and genuine.
"I'll survive." Harry tucked both their hands into his coat pocket—an awkward arrangement that required walking very close together but kept them both warm through shared body heat. "Besides, Dad should be here soon. Uncle Remus said he'd arrive early this morning."
Luna leaned against his shoulder slightly, comfortable in a way she hadn't been before that midnight conversation. The bullying hadn't stopped—Bryce and his friends still whispered, still excluded her, still made her life difficult in small, cruel ways—but something fundamental had shifted. She wasn't carrying it alone anymore. She had Harry. Had friends who knew and cared. Had the certainty that someone would notice if she hurt.
"You've been cheerier," Harry said quietly. "Since... you know. That night."
"Crying helps," Luna admitted. "Carrying secrets is exhausting. Sharing them makes them lighter." She tilted her head to look up at him, grey eyes thoughtful. "Thank you. For listening. For caring enough to notice."
Harry's ears went red despite the cold. "Of course I care. You're—you're Luna. You're important."
"So are you," Luna said simply.
They walked in companionable silence, watching snow fall in lazy drifts and Jasper occasionally dart from Harry's hood to catch flakes before retreating to warmth. The castle behind them glowed with enchanted lights, students beginning to stir, the promise of Christmas breakfast drawing early risers toward the Great Hall.
Movement caught Harry's eye—a figure approaching across the snowy grounds, dark coat standing out against white landscape, walking with the fluid confidence Harry would recognize anywhere.
"Dad!" Harry hold Luna's hand and ran, his feet kicking up snow, seventeen months of separation suddenly feeling very long.
Luna's smile widened as she watched Harry crash into Ethan's arms with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Ethan caught him easily, his dark-amber eyes warm with affection that he rarely showed anyone else. "Hello, Harry. You've grown. Again."
"You say that every time," Harry said, his voice muffled by Ethan's coat.
"Because it's true every time." Ethan released him enough to study his face properly. "Taller. More muscular. Summer training holding?"
"Yeah. Practicing the exercises you showed me. The physique explosion's getting easier to control."
"Good." Ethan's attention shifted to Luna, who'd stopped a respectful distance away. "Luna. A pleasure to see you again."
"Hello, Teacher" Luna said, her voice carrying that dreamy quality but her eyes sharp with awareness. "Thank you for coming to celebrate with Harry. He's been excited all week."
"Has he?" Ethan's mouth quirked with amusement. "How unusually demonstrative."
Harry stepped back to include Luna in the greeting, his hand finding hers again automatically. "Dad, can we—breakfast is starting. Ron and Hermione are waiting. Will you join us?"
"That's why I'm here," Ethan confirmed. "Lead the way."
They walked back toward the castle together—Harry between Luna and Ethan, talking rapidly about the term, about classes, about the upcoming duel with Bryce Thornton that made Ethan's expression sharpen with interest.
"Four fifth-years," Ethan said thoughtfully. "Ambitious. Do you need additional training before the duel?"
"I've got the Map now," Harry said. "Been practicing in empty corridors after curfew. Working on the red lightning Expelliarmus you helped me develop."
"Excellent. We'll review your progress whilst I'm here. Make sure you're properly prepared."
Luna squeezed Harry's hand gently, and he glanced at her to find her smiling with quiet pride.
The Great Hall had been transformed for Christmas—twelve massive trees decorated with enchanted ornaments that floated and sparkled, garlands of holly and ivy draped along the walls, the enchanted ceiling showing gentle snowfall that disappeared before reaching the tables. The usual four house tables had been replaced by a single long table where the handful of students remaining for the holidays could sit together.
Ron and Hermione sat near one end, deep in conversation that appeared to involve Hermione's new book and Ron's steadfast refusal to care about theoretical frameworks. Crookshanks lounged on the table beside Hermione's plate, his bottlebrush tail swishing lazily. And on Ron's shoulder, looking considerably more nervous than usual, sat Scabbers.
The moment Crookshanks spotted the rat, his entire demeanor changed. His amber eyes locked on with predatory focus, his body tensed, his tail went rigid—
"Crookshanks," Ethan said quietly, his voice carrying across the Hall with unexpected authority.
The half-Kneazle's head whipped toward Ethan, ears flattening slightly.
Ethan crossed to the table with deliberate calm, his dark-amber eyes meeting Crookshanks's amber ones with perfect understanding. He extended one hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Crookshanks bumped his head against Ethan's palm.
"You're remarkably intelligent," Ethan murmured, scratching behind the cat's ears whilst maintaining eye contact. "You know, don't you? You can sense what he really is."
Crookshanks made a sound—half-purr, half-growl—that suggested agreement.
Ethan's fingers traced a very subtle pattern behind the cat's ears whilst his other hand moved in gestures that might have been casual but carried intent. To anyone watching, it looked like simple petting.
But in reality, it was magic. Communication. Commands delivered silently.
'Not yet,' Ethan's magic whispered to the Kneazle's sharp mind. 'You'll give away the game. Watch. Wait. When the time comes, I'll need your help. But patience now serves our purposes better than action.'
Crookshanks's tail settled. His predatory focus remained, but the immediate threat of attack faded. He sat back on his haunches, watching Scabbers with unblinking intensity but no longer preparing to pounce.
"There," Ethan said pleasantly, straightening. "Much calmer."
"How did you do that?" Hermione asked, impressed. "He's been trying to eat Scabbers for months. I've tried everything—"
Ron quietly shoot her a glare while caressing Scabbers.
"Kneazles respond to respect," Ethan said. "Acknowledge their intelligence rather than treating them as simple pets, and they're remarkably cooperative." He settled into a seat beside Harry, his attention apparently focused on breakfast whilst actually monitoring both the cat and rat with peripheral awareness.
Scabbers remained very, very still. If rats could look nervous, he'd achieved it masterfully.
Breakfast appeared—eggs, bacon, toast, porridge with honey, fresh fruit despite the season, and steaming tea that cut through the morning chill. Students ate with the particular enjoyment of people who had nowhere urgent to be, conversation flowing easily.
"How's Dobby?" Harry asked between bites of scrambled eggs. "Is he settling in well?"
"Remarkably well," Ethan confirmed. "Your suggestion to employ him has proven invaluable. He's become quite indispensable to our Main Hall manager, Ms Rogeiros... apparently house-elves have an intuitive understanding of customer service that most wizards lack. Plus his enthusiasm is infectious. Customers love him."
"He's happy?" Harry pressed.
"Ecstatic. He's being paid, treated well, given proper accommodation, and allowed to work himself to exhaustion if he chooses—which he usually does. I believe he considers it paradise." Ethan's mouth quirked. "He also asks about you constantly. Wants to know if 'the Great Harry Potter Sir' is eating properly and staying warm and avoiding dangerous adventures."
Harry grinned despite himself. "Tell him I'm fine. And that I appreciate everything he did."
"I shall."
The professors began arriving for breakfast—McGonagall severe and purposeful, Flitwick cheerful despite the early hour, Sprout bundling in with the particular ruddiness that came from morning work in heated greenhouses. Dumbledore appeared last, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as he surveyed the festive Hall.
Ethan greeted each professor with appropriate courtesy. McGonagall received respectful acknowledgment. Flitwick got genuine warmth—the two had corresponded about Atid Stella's heating charms. Sprout was thanked for her continued cooperation with Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures curriculum.
Snape received the absolute minimum politeness social convention demanded—a nod, a flat "Professor Snape," and immediate attention redirect.
Dumbledore got similar treatment, though with more careful neutrality. "Headmaster. Thank you for allowing me to visit for the holidays."
"Mr Esther. Always a pleasure to have you at Hogwarts." Dumbledore's eyes held calculation beneath the grandfatherly warmth. "I trust Atid Stella continues to flourish?"
"Quite well, thank you."
The conversation might have continued into uncomfortable territory, but Professor Trelawney's arrival derailed it entirely.
The Divination teacher swept into the Hall wrapped in multiple shawls despite the warmth, her enormous glasses magnifying her eyes to unsettling proportions. The moment she spotted Ethan, she stopped mid-stride.
Her expression cycled through several emotions in rapid succession—fear, awe, reverence, terror, and something approaching worship—before settling on deeply conflicted anxiety.
"Mr Esther," she breathed, her voice carrying that breathy, mystical quality whilst also shaking slightly. "I—the stars spoke of your coming. The Seeing showed me—" She swallowed hard. "It is... an honour. And also quite terrifying."
Ethan's expression remained carefully neutral. "Professor Trelawney. Your reputation precedes you."
"As does yours," Trelawney whispered. She clutched her shawls tighter, studying him with those magnified eyes. "The true Seer. The one who Sees clearly. I am... humbled. And frightened. Your presence makes the threads of fate vibrate with such intensity—"
"Perhaps we should discuss this another time," Ethan suggested mildly. "When there are fewer students present."
Trelawney nodded rapidly and retreated to the far end of the table, though she continued to cast nervous glances in Ethan's direction.
Harry leaned close to his father. "What was that about?"
"Professional recognition," Ethan said quietly. "She knows I'm a genuine Seer. It makes her... uncomfortable. We'll discuss it later."
The Great Hall gradually filled with festive warmth despite the Dementors' oppressive presence beyond the castle boundaries. Enchanted snow continued falling from the ceiling, disappearing before it reached the tables. The trees sparkled with magic. Somewhere, Peeves was singing an off-key Christmas carol that involved highly creative profanity.
For just a moment, everything felt almost normal.
December 24th, 1993, Shrieking Shack, 11:47 PM
The Shack's atmosphere matched its reputation—cold, dusty, filled with shadows that moved wrong and creaked with sounds that had no obvious source. Moonlight struggled through grimy windows, creating bars of silver across rotting floorboards.
Sirius Black paced in human form—the first time he'd risked transformation in weeks—his gaunt face tight with controlled fury and desperate hope in equal measure. He'd received Ethan's message earlier: Meet tonight. Important developments.
Remus arrived first, slipping through the passage from the village with the ease of someone who'd made this journey countless times. His robes were marked with chalk dust, his face weary but alert.
"Sirius," he said quietly. "You still look terrible."
"Ten years in Azkaban, two years on the run, and a month living in a shack that smells like dead things," Sirius said. "I'm rather fashionable by fugitive standards."
"Still have your sense of humour, at least."
"It's all I have some days."
Ethan materialized from the shadows. His dark-amber eyes swept the room, cataloguing exits and potential threats with automatic efficiency.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for coming, now Sirius..."
Sirius immediately retailed what he had saw since the start of the term.
Afterwards Ethan pulled out his trusty pocket watch and began divination under Sirius's expectation.
...
"What have you got?" Sirius said impatiently. "About Mordred? About Peter? About when we can finally move against that rat?"
"All three," Ethan confirmed. "I've confirmed several critical facts."
He let the watch swing gently, its pendulum movement hypnotic and deliberate. His eyes went distant—not vacant, but focused on something beyond physical sight. Probability branches. Temporal echoes. The strange mathematics of futures not yet written.
"Mordred's Animagus form," Ethan said, his voice taking on the particular flatness of someone reporting visions, "is a cat. Black, sleek, capable of moving through the castle undetected. That's how he bypassed the wards during the Fat Lady attack—the wards register him as a student's pet rather than an intruder. And perhaps that's how he escaped from Azkaban..."
Sirius swore. "Ha! He's been walking around as a bloody cat!"
"Precisely." The watch continued its steady swing. "His objectives are twofold. Primary: capture Peter Pettigrew. Secondary: kill Harry Potter if opportunity presents itself."
The temperature in the Shack seemed to drop several degrees.
"Why Peter?" Remus asked quietly. "What does Mordred want with that traitor?"
Ethan's eyes refocused, meeting theirs with grim certainty. "Because Mordred has also employed divination. Not to my level, but enough to See certain probabilities. And what he's Seen is this... Peter Pettigrew will bring forth Voldemort's return."
Silence.
Absolute, horrified silence.
"That's impossible," Sirius said, but his voice lacked conviction. "The Dark Lord is dead. Has been for twelve years. You can't return from death—"
"Can't you?" Ethan's tone was soft, dangerous. "Voldemort spent decades researching immortality and you should know..."
Ethan began telling Sirius what happened since Harry's first year at Hogwarts. "Death, for him, may be... negotiable."
Remus had gone very pale. "If Voldemort returns—"
"Then the war begins again," Ethan finished. "Which is precisely why Mordred wants Peter. Voldemort's loyal servant, the one who knows the old hiding places, the old contacts, the old rituals. Peter is the key to resurrection. Mordred knows this. And he's hunting him with single-minded determination."
"So we grab Peter first," Sirius said immediately. "Take him to the Ministry, get him Veritaserum'd, clear my name, and make sure Voldemort stays dead—"
"No."
The word cut through Sirius's building momentum like a knife.
"No?" Sirius's voice rose dangerously. "What do you mean, no? You just said Peter's the key to bringing back the Dark Lord, and you want to—what? Leave him running around Hogwarts as a student's pet whilst we wait for—"
"For the optimal moment," Ethan interrupted calmly. "When we can catch both Mordred and Peter simultaneously. When we have sufficient witnesses and evidence that the Ministry cannot dismiss it. When your exoneration is guaranteed rather than probable."
"And what about Harry?" Sirius's hands clenched. "You said Mordred wants to kill my godson. You want me to just sit here whilst—"
"Harry is protected," Ethan said flatly. "By Hogwarts' wards, by Dumbledore's presence, by Remus's watchfulness, by you patrolling at night, and by me monitoring through divination. Mordred won't get near him without us knowing. But if we move prematurely, if we might not even grab Peter and Mordred, we lose our chance to clear your name properly..."
Remus narrowed his eyes at Ethan's mention of such probability.
Ethan stepped closer to Sirius, his dark-amber eyes holding grey ones with absolute conviction. "I understand your frustration. Your fear. Your desperate need to act. But acting now, without proper setup, means Peter might escape again. Means Mordred remains free. Means you stay a fugitive despite catching the real traitor. Patience, Sirius. Just a little longer."
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue. Wanted to rage. Wanted to grab Peter himself tonight and damn the consequences.
But something in Ethan's gaze made him hesitate.
"How much longer?" Sirius asked, his voice rough.
"Weeks... Months." Ethan's expression softened fractionally. "The pieces are moving into position. Mordred grows bolder. Peter grows more nervous. Soon, very soon, everything will converge. And when it does, we'll be ready."
"I hate this," Sirius muttered. "Hate waiting. Hate watching. Hate being this close to justice and having to sit on my hands."
"I know," Remus said quietly, his hand finding Sirius's shoulder. "But Ethan's right. We do this properly, or we don't do it at all."
Sirius took a shaking breath, then nodded. "Fine. But the moment—the very moment—you say it's time, I'm there. No more waiting. No more patience."
"Agreed," Ethan said. "When the time comes, you'll be the first to know."
December 25th, 1993, Great Hall, 7:17 PM
The Christmas feast was intimate in a way the usual term-time dinners could never be—just fourteen people around a single table, the massive Hall feeling both too large and perfectly sized for the occasion.
Candles floated overhead, their light warm and golden. The enchanted ceiling showed clear winter stars, constellations wheeling in slow majesty. The Christmas trees sparkled with magic, and somewhere Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, was singing softly—the sound carrying through the Hall like audible hope.
Harry sat between Luna and Ethan, across from Ron and Hermione. The Weasley twins occupied one end of the table with Ginny, whilst Neville sat with Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. Dumbledore presided over everything with benevolent satisfaction.
Gifts had been exchanged throughout the day—a chaos of wrapping paper and surprised exclamations and genuine delight.
Harry had received his customary Weasley jumper from Mrs Weasley—emerald green with a golden Snidget stitched across the chest, clearly influenced by Jasper's presence. Ron got a broom servicing kit from Hermione, which he'd immediately declared brilliant despite having no idea how half the tools worked. Hermione showed everyone her parents' gift: an Atid Stella Camera, compact and elegant, with enchantments that developed photos instantly in full colour.
"It's remarkable engineering," Hermione said, examining the device with barely contained excitement. "The light-capture charms alone—"
"Take a picture," Ron suggested. "Document the moment or whatever."
Hermione raised the camera, focusing on Harry and Luna.
Harry had just opened the small wooden box containing the Blooming Mirrored Lotus bracelet. His hands shook slightly as he lifted it, the silver filigree catching candlelight, the crystallized moonlight lotus flowers beginning their slow eternal bloom.
"L-Luna," he said quietly. "I got you this. F-for Christmas."
Luna's grey eyes widened, genuine surprise replacing her usual dreamy distance. "Harry, it's beautiful."
"Here." Harry's nervousness made his movements careful, deliberate. "L-let me put it on for you."
Luna extended her wrist, and Harry fastened the bracelet with the focused attention usually reserved for complex spell-work. The silver settled against her pale skin perfectly, the lotus flowers catching light and throwing back soft rainbow shimmer.
The flowers' colour shifted subtly—warming into soft pink and gold tones that suggested happiness, contentment, gentle joy.
"It's enchanted," Harry explained, his voice still carrying that nervous stutter. "The colours change with your emotions. Warm for happy, cool for calm. The blooming represents growth and—and other things the merchant explained that I didn't completely understand. But I thought—I thought it suited you."
Luna studied the bracelet with wonder, watching the flowers bloom and close in their endless cycle. Then she looked up at Harry with an expression so genuinely moved that his breath caught.
"Thank you," she said softly. "It's perfect."
Click.
Hermione's camera captured the moment—Harry's nervous smile, Luna's genuine delight, the bracelet gleaming between them, candlelight making everything warm and magical and exactly right.
From his seat slightly removed, Ethan watched with an expression Harry rarely saw on his father's face. Something distant. Nostalgic. Touched with old grief that never quite healed.
He was remembering another Christmas. Another gift exchange. Aelia's smile when he'd given her something meaningful, her laugh, the way her eyes had lit up exactly the way Luna's did now. A flash of sorrow cross the man eyes.
The moment passed. Ethan's expression smoothed back into its usual careful neutrality, but something in his chest ached with memories of Christmas past and futures that would never come.
Professor Trelawney had arrived late, her multiple shawls rustling as she surveyed the table with dramatic concern.
"Thirteen!" she proclaimed, her magnified eyes wide with distress. "We are thirteen at table! This is most inauspicious! When thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
"We're fourteen, actually," Ethan said mildly from his seat. "I'm here. That makes fourteen."
Trelawney's head swiveled toward him, her expression cycling through confusion, calculation, and eventual nervous acceptance. "Oh. Yes. Of course. Fourteen. Much better. Considerably less fatal." She settled into a seat as far from Ethan as the table allowed, though she continued casting anxious glances his direction.
"Does she always do that?" Ron whispered to Harry.
"Apparently," Harry whispered back.
The feast itself was magnificent—roasted turkey, honey-glazed ham, Yorkshire pudding, roasted vegetables, cranberry sauce, and approximately seventeen different types of dessert ranging from Christmas pudding to mince pies to chocolate gateau that made Ron's eyes glaze over with anticipatory pleasure.
Conversation flowed around the table—the twins regaling everyone with tales of experimental pranks, McGonagall discussing Transfiguration theory with Hermione, Dumbledore telling stories about Christmases past with theatrical flair.
Harry was reaching for his goblet when he noticed it—a package he'd somehow missed earlier, wrapped in plain brown paper and sitting innocuously beside his plate.
"What's this?" he asked, picking it up carefully.
"Don't know," Ron said through a mouthful of turkey. "Wasn't there earlier."
Harry unwrapped it slowly, and his breath caught.
Inside was a broomstick. Not just any broomstick—the Firebolt. The absolute pinnacle of racing broom technology. Sleek mahogany handle, goblin-wrought silver, the sort of craftsmanship that cost more than most families spent on housing.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed. "That's—that's a Firebolt. That's the best broom in the world. Who sent you a Firebolt?"
There was no card. No indication of sender. Just the broom, pristine and perfect and impossibly expensive.
Hermione's expression shifted to concern. "Harry, you can't accept this. We don't know who sent it. It could be cursed, or—"
"It's not cursed," Ethan said quietly. His voice carried absolute certainty—the tone of someone who'd checked, who'd verified, who knew.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"You know who sent it?" Hermione asked.
"I have a reasonable suspicion," Ethan said carefully. "And I can assure you the gift carries no harmful enchantments. It's simply a very expensive broom from someone who... wishes Harry well."
Harry studied his father's face, reading the subtle tension around his eyes, the carefully controlled expression.
"Thank you," he said puzzledly. "Whoever sent it. Thank you."
Then inspiration struck—the sort of generous impulse that came from having more than he needed and friends who had less.
"Ron," Harry said, turning to his best friend. "You can borrow this for the Quidditch match. For the rest of the season, actually. Your Nimbus is good, but if you're playing Seeker against Ravenclaw, you'll need every advantage."
Ron's fork clattered against his plate. "What? Harry, I can't—that's a Firebolt—you can't just lend someone a Firebolt—"
"Yes, I can. It's my broom, I can lend it to whoever I want." Harry grinned. "Besides, you'll take better care of it than I would. And I want Gryffindor to win the Cup. Consider it my contribution to Wood's sanity."
Ron's eyes had gone suspiciously bright. "You—you're serious?"
"Completely."
Ron launched himself across the table, wrapping Harry in a fierce hug that nearly toppled both their chairs. "You're the best friend anyone's ever had," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The absolute best. I'm going to treasure this broom. I'm going to polish it every day. I'm going to name it. I'm going to—"
"You're going to get off me before you drool on my new jumper," Harry interrupted, laughing despite the awkward angle.
"Right. Yes. Sorry." Ron released him but continued grinning with manic intensity. "A Firebolt. I'm flying a Firebolt. Oliver Wood is going to lose his mind. This is the best Christmas ever."
Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. "Boys and their brooms. I will never understand the obsession."
But she was smiling too, warmth in her expression as she watched Ron's unrestrained joy.
The feast continued into evening—desserts demolished, stories told, laughter echoing through the nearly empty Hall. Outside, winter darkness settled over Hogwarts. Dementors patrolled boundaries with cold malevolence. Mordred Slythra watched and waited and planned. Peter Pettigrew trembled in rat form, sensing danger without understanding its source.
But inside, for just this moment, there was warmth. There was family—chosen if not blood. There was Harry between Luna and Ethan, Ron clutching his broom servicing kit like treasure, Hermione capturing moments with her camera, the twins plotting pranks, professors relaxing into rare leisure.
Christmas at Hogwarts.
Small, intimate, and exactly right.