After dinner—Richard eating in silence, his mother making strained conversation, Ethan pushing food around his plate—he retreated to his bedroom and locked the door.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to his closet door and studied himself.
Eleven years old. Dark hair slightly messy. Grey eyes that looked too old.
He was wearing expensive casual clothes: designer jeans, a polo shirt. He looked like exactly what he was on the surface—a wealthy stepchild.
But his posture was wrong.
He was standing like an adult. Weight balanced, shoulders back, chin level. Controlled. Composed.
A twenty-two-year-old who knew how to carry himself.
An eleven-year-old wouldn't stand like this.
Ethan forced himself to slouch slightly. Shift his weight to one foot. Let his shoulders curve forward a bit.
There—already more childlike.
"Hello, Professor McGonagall," he said to his reflection. "I'm Ethan Drake."
His voice sounded wrong too. Too measured. Too formal.
He tried again: "Hi, Professor McGonagall. I'm Ethan. Thank you for helping me."
Better. Less formal. But still too controlled.
Ethan thought about the eleven-year-olds he'd observed at his muggle school. How did they talk?
Fast, sometimes. Enthusiastic. They rambled. They got distracted. They used simpler sentence structures.
"Hi! I'm Ethan Drake. This is so cool—I mean, not cool, but like, exciting? I've never been to Diagon Alley before. My dad used to talk about it but he died when I was nine so I don't really remember much and my mum doesn't really know about magic stuff so—"
He stopped. Too much. Now he sounded nervous and babbling.
The trick was balance. Not too sophisticated, not too childish. Believable.
He tried different approaches:
Too Adult: "Professor McGonagall, I appreciate you taking the time to escort me. I have several questions about the curriculum and appropriate preparation strategies for first-year students."
God, no. He sounded like he was interviewing for a job.
Too Young: "Wow, magic is so awesome! Can I see a spell? Do you have a wand? Is Hogwarts really a castle? That's so cool!"
Better enthusiasm, but too eager. Too puppy-like.
Middle Ground: "Professor McGonagall? I'm really glad you're here. I've been kind of nervous about doing this alone. My mum knows some stuff but not much, and I have a lot of questions about Hogwarts and, um, everything really."
That was closer. Polite, a bit nervous, asking for guidance. Made him seem appropriately overwhelmed.
Ethan practiced his facial expressions.
Neutral adult face: Calm, assessing, guarded. Wrong.
He tried to remember how child-him would have looked. The memories were there, merged with his adult consciousness.
He'd been more expressive. His emotions had shown easily.
Excited: Let his eyes widen. Smile genuinely, not the controlled social smile he'd perfected. Let energy into his body language.
Nervous: Bite his lip slightly. Let his eyes dart around. Fidget with his hands.
Curious: Lean forward. Tilt his head. Don't try to hide his interest.
Confused: Furrow his brow. Let uncertainty show.
The key was showing emotions, not hiding them. Adults learned to mask. Children didn't.
He practiced questions, varying his delivery:
"What's Hogwarts like?" Too bland.
"What's Hogwarts like? I mean, my dad told me some stuff, but is it really a huge castle? Are the classes hard?" Better—specific, personal reference, showed concern.
"What should I study before school starts?" Too strategic.
"Should I read the textbooks before September? I don't want to be behind everyone else." Better—showed normal kid anxiety about fitting in.
Ethan practiced walking around his room.
Adult walking: Purposeful strides, efficient movement, minimal wasted energy.
Child walking: He let himself bounce slightly. More energy. Less concerned with looking dignified. He paused to touch things, let himself get distracted.
It felt ridiculous, but it looked right in the mirror.
He worked on his eye contact.
Adult: Steady, direct, challenging when needed. Maintaining eye contact was a power move.
Child: He practiced looking away more. Looking down when nervous. Glancing around with curiosity instead of assessment.
Then he rehearsed specific scenarios.
---
SCENARIO 1: Meeting McGonagall
He imagined her—stern, professional, probably older. An authority figure.
Wrong response: "Good morning, Professor. Shall we proceed to Gringotts first to handle the inheritance documentation?"
Right response: "Hi, Professor McGonagall. Thanks for meeting us. Um, my mum's here too, is that okay? I wasn't sure what to bring or how this works..."
Body language: Stand a bit behind his mother initially. Let himself seem slightly intimidated by this stranger from a world he didn't understand.
---
SCENARIO 2: At Gringotts
Meeting the goblins. His father's letter said they respected directness and hated lies.
Wrong response: "I require access to Vault 547. Here are the relevant documents. I'm particularly interested in reviewing the grimoire and artifact inventory."
Right response: "Hi, um, I'm Ethan Drake. This is my vault key from my dad. He said I should ask for someone named Griphook? I've never been here before and I don't really know how this works."
Direct and honest, but appropriately uncertain. Not trying to sound knowledgeable.
---
SCENARIO 3: Meeting Other Magical People
Shop owners, other students, anyone in Diagon Alley.
Wrong response: "I'm researching optimal equipment choices for first-year curriculum demands."
Right response: "I'm starting Hogwarts in September! Do you go there? What house are you in? I don't even know how they sort us yet..."
Enthusiastic, curious, asking questions that showed he was new and learning.
---
Ethan practiced his response to seeing magic for the "first time."
Adult response: Observe carefully, note mechanisms, assess applications.
Child response: "Whoa!" Let his jaw drop. Point at things. Ask "How did you do that?" and "Can I try?"
He wouldn't overdo it—he wasn't a toddler. But genuine wonder and excitement were expected from an eleven-year-old entering the magical world for the first time.
Even if internally, he'd be cataloging everything for strategic purposes.
He worked on his nervous tells—the ones that seemed childlike:
Touching the back of his neck when uncertain.
Shifting weight from foot to foot when waiting.
Playing with objects in his hands—the vault key, maybe.
Asking "Is this okay?" and "Am I doing this right?"
These made him seem appropriately unsure without seeming incompetent.
Then he practiced the hardest part: genuine questions versus strategic ones.
Strategic Questions (Avoid):
"What are the most powerful spells taught at Hogwarts?"
"How does one gain political influence in magical society?"
"What are the career paths with highest earning potential?"
Genuine Kid Questions (Use):
"Are the classes hard? I'm worried I'll be bad at magic."
"Do people make friends easily? I don't know anyone."
"What if my wand doesn't work right? What if I can't do spells?"
The difference was fear versus ambition. Kids worried about fitting in, failing, being embarrassed.
Adults planned for success and advantage.
He needed to channel the fears, not the plans.
Ethan practiced one final time, imagining McGonagall asking: "What do you want to learn at Hogwarts?"
Wrong: "I'm interested in mastering advanced transfiguration, defensive magic, and any restricted knowledge the library contains."
Right: "Everything, I guess? I mean, I want to be good at magic. My dad was really talented and I... I want to make him proud. Even though he's gone."
The last part—the emotional vulnerability—that was the key.
Kids wore their hearts more openly. They mentioned their dead parent and got a little sad. They wanted approval.
Adults compartmentalized and strategized.
Ethan looked at himself in the mirror one last time.
Slouched slightly. Less controlled posture. Wider eyes. Expression that showed what he was thinking instead of hiding it.
"Hi," he said to his reflection. "I'm Ethan Drake. I'm kind of nervous but really excited. Thanks for helping me."
He smiled—not the calculated adult smile, but something more genuine, more uncertain, more young.
There.
That was the mask he'd wear tomorrow.
A twenty-two-year-old predator disguised as an eleven-year-old student.
Ethan pulled out his notebook and added a final section:
---
PERSONA CHECKLIST:
Posture: Less rigid, more energy
Voice: Faster, less formal, some filler words ("um," "like")
Eyes: Show emotions, look away when nervous, widen with surprise
Questions: Focus on fitting in, not standing out
Vulnerability: Show it—mention dad, express worries, ask for reassurance
DANGER SIGNS TO AVOID:
Too much eye contact
Too articulate/formal language
Strategic thinking out loud
Too confident
Asking suspiciously specific questions
---
He closed the notebook and checked the clock. 9:47 PM.
Tomorrow morning, he would become Ethan Drake the child.
Tonight, he was still the adult planning how to exploit everything.
Ethan set his alarm for 7:00 AM—plenty of time to shower, dress appropriately, pack his bag, and prepare mentally.
The watch in his pocket pulsed warm against his leg. A reminder that beneath the innocent act, he was hunting for answers about murder.
But no one would see that.
They'd just see a nervous, excited eleven-year-old boy going to buy his school supplies.
Perfect.