Ethan had done all the preparation he could.
More planning, more rehearsing, more thinking—it would only make him second-guess himself tomorrow. He needed to be sharp, and that meant sleep.
He changed into pajamas, set his alarm, and organized everything for the morning.
On his desk:
The manila envelope with vault key, inheritance papers, birth certificate.
His school bag, packed with notebook, pens, and his father's map hidden in a folder.
The Hogwarts letter and McGonagall's response.
A clean outfit laid out: nice jeans, a button-up shirt, a light jacket. Presentable but not pretentious.
In his pockets for tomorrow:
The watch. The velvet pouch with Galleons and Sickles. His father's letter, folded small.
Ethan slid into bed, and his mind immediately started racing.
The vault. The grimoire. McGonagall. Griphook. What if—
No.
He forced himself to stop. Overthinking led to mistakes. He'd prepared. He knew his role. Trust the work.
He focused on his breathing. In. Out. Slow and steady.
The watch on his nightstand glowed faintly in the moonlight streaming through his window. The Danger Alert sat at "Safe." The Magical Exposure dial read "Moderate"—the ambient magic of the watch itself and the coins nearby.
His last thought before sleep was of his father's handwriting.
"If it wasn't an accident..."
Tomorrow, he would begin finding answers.
---
Saturday Morning: July 27, 1991
The alarm jolted Ethan awake at 7:00 AM sharp.
He was up immediately, mind clear, focused. The fog of sleep vanished with practiced efficiency—one of the few benefits of having an adult consciousness in a young body.
No grogginess, no hesitation.
He showered quickly, dressed in the clothes he'd laid out, and spent extra time on his hair. Messy enough to look like a kid who tried, but not so messy he looked slovenly.
The balance mattered.
Ethan slipped the watch into his jeans pocket. The velvet pouch went in his jacket. The documents went in his school bag.
Downstairs, his mother was already up, wearing a conservative dress and cardigan—her "dealing with official business" outfit.
She'd made breakfast: eggs, toast, orange juice.
"Nervous?" she asked as he sat down.
"A little," Ethan admitted.
And it was true. Not the nervousness she thought—worried about magic school—but the tension of walking into unknown territory with potentially hostile players.
"Eat," she instructed. "We leave in thirty minutes. The drive will take at least an hour."
Richard was nowhere to be seen. Gone to the office early, probably. Or avoiding the whole "magic nonsense" situation.
Either way, Ethan was glad he wasn't here.
---
At 8:15 AM, he and his mother got into her Mercedes.
She drove smoothly, confidently, navigating out of Surrey toward London. The morning traffic was light for a Saturday.
Ethan watched the landscape change from countryside to suburbs to the dense urban sprawl of the city.
His mind ran through scenarios, questions, contingencies.
"Ethan," his mother said about halfway there, breaking the silence. "Promise me you'll be careful. In that world."
"I promise," he said.
"I mean it." Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Your father... he loved the danger. The challenge. It got him killed. You're smart—I know you are, even if you're only eleven. Don't be like him. Don't take unnecessary risks."
If only she knew.
"I'll be careful," Ethan repeated, putting reassurance in his voice.
She seemed satisfied. Or at least, willing to accept the lie.
---
By 9:35 AM, they were parked in a garage near Charing Cross Road.
The street was busy with Saturday shoppers—muggle London in full swing.
Catherine led him down the sidewalk, past shops and cafes and bookstores. Then she stopped.
"There," she said, pointing.
Between a large bookshop and a record store, there was... nothing. Just a gap.
Ethan's eyes wanted to slide right past it.
But when he focused, really looked—
There.
A grimy, shabby pub. Wooden sign hanging crooked: THE LEAKY CAULDRON. Windows so dirty they were nearly opaque.
The kind of place muggles would instinctively avoid.
"I can see it," Ethan said, genuine wonder in his voice.
Because it was wonderful, in a way—perception magic actually working on him.
"Come on," Catherine said, and walked toward the door.
Ethan followed, and the moment he crossed the threshold, everything changed.
---
The interior was dark, small, cramped.
A few old wizards sat in corners nursing drinks. The bartender—a stooped, toothless man—nodded at them without much interest.
But standing near the fireplace, clearly waiting, was a woman who could only be Professor Minerva McGonagall.
She was tall, severe-looking, maybe fifty or sixty, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun. She wore emerald robes and a pointed hat, and her expression was one of stern assessment behind square spectacles.
She looked exactly like an authority figure Ethan should be intimidated by.
Perfect.
He let himself hesitate, half-hiding behind his mother for just a moment. Then he stepped forward.
"Professor McGonagall?" His voice was higher, a bit uncertain. He'd dropped his posture, letting his shoulders curve slightly. "I'm Ethan Drake. Thank you so much for meeting us."
McGonagall's sharp eyes swept over him, then his mother, then back to him.
"Mr. Drake," she said crisply. Her voice was exactly as commanding as her appearance suggested. "Mrs. Thornton. Good morning. You're punctual. I appreciate that."
She extended a hand. Ethan shook it—her grip was firm—and tried to look appropriately awed by meeting a real witch.
"And you must be Marcus Drake's boy," McGonagall continued, and something softened fractionally in her expression. "I taught your father at Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor. Talented student. Somewhat reckless, but talented. I was sorry to hear about his passing."
This was information. She'd known his father. Opportunity.
"You taught him?" Ethan let excitement bleed into his voice, leaning forward. "What was he like? He died when I was nine, and I don't remember as much as I wish I did."
McGonagall's lips quirked into something almost like a smile.
"Brilliant at Transfiguration. Terrible at following rules. He once turned a teacher's desk into a hippopotamus during detention. The same teacher who'd assigned the detention, mind you."
She shook her head. "But he had a good heart. And considerable magical talent."
Catherine was smiling too, a sad, nostalgic expression.
"Now then," McGonagall said, all business again. "We have much to accomplish today. Diagon Alley awaits. Have you brought the necessary documents for Gringotts?"
"Yes, Professor." Ethan patted his bag. "Vault key, inheritance papers, birth certificate."
"Excellent. Mrs. Thornton, you're welcome to accompany us to Gringotts for the verification process. After that, I suspect young Mr. Drake would benefit from exploring Diagon Alley somewhat independently, under my supervision of course. He'll need to become comfortable in our world."
Catherine looked uncertain. "I suppose that makes sense. As long as he's with you, Professor."
"He will be perfectly safe," McGonagall assured her.
Then she turned toward the back of the pub. "This way."
---
She led them through the bar to a small, walled courtyard.
Brick walls on all sides. Dead end.
McGonagall pulled out a wand—dark wood, sleek—and tapped specific bricks in a pattern.
"Three up... two across..."
The brick she touched quivered. Then, with a grinding sound like stone on stone, the wall began to fold in on itself.
Bricks rearranged, creating an archway.
Beyond it:
Diagon Alley.
Ethan's breath caught—and he didn't have to fake it.
The street beyond was impossible. Crooked, winding, packed with shops that defied architecture.
Cauldrons hanging outside one store. Brooms displayed in another window. Owls hooting from a shop called Eeylops Owl Emporium.
Robed figures walked everywhere, some levitating packages, others deep in conversation.
And at the far end, gleaming white and massive, rising above every other building:
Gringotts.
"Welcome," McGonagall said, watching his reaction with approval, "to Diagon Alley."