Ethan didn't have to fake his reaction.
Because even with his adult mind, even with all his preparation and planning and strategic thinking—this was real magic happening in front of him.
His eyes went wide. His mouth opened slightly. He took two steps forward into Diagon Alley proper and just... stared.
"This is—this is—" He spun in a slow circle, trying to look at everything at once. "How is this even here? We're in London! How does no one—"
"Muggle-Repelling Charms," McGonagall said, sounding pleased by his reaction. "And a rather extensive array of Notice-Me-Not enchantments. The entire Alley exists in a sort of... fold in space. Quite complex magic, maintained for centuries."
Ethan barely heard her.
He was already moving toward the nearest shop window—Slug & Jiggers Apothecary.
Inside, shelves were stacked with jars of things that shouldn't exist: pickled slugs, dried beetles, what looked like eyes floating in liquid, powders in every color imaginable.
"Are those real?" He pressed his face nearly against the glass. "For potions?"
"Indeed," McGonagall said, following at a more sedate pace. "Potions ingredients. You'll need a basic student kit, though most of those are rather... specialized."
Ethan spotted movement and jumped back. A jar on the shelf was writhing. Something inside was alive and trying to get out.
"What's in that one?!"
"Horklump juice, most likely. The creatures are rather vigorous."
He tore himself away and looked down the street. There was so much—
Quality Quidditch Supplies had flying broomsticks in the window. Actually floating, rotating slowly on display.
"Those brooms are flying! By themselves! How—do they just do that? Can anyone ride them? Do I get to learn?"
"First years are not typically permitted personal brooms," McGonagall said, but there was warmth in her stern voice now. "However, flying lessons are part of the curriculum. Madam Hooch is quite competent."
Catherine was smiling despite herself. This was probably the most childlike Ethan had seemed in months.
He pointed at a shop called Flourish and Blotts. "Is that the bookstore? Can we go there? I want to see magical books—are they different from muggle books? Do the pictures move?"
"The photographs in wizarding publications do move, yes," McGonagall confirmed. "And we will visit Flourish and Blotts for your textbooks. But first, Gringotts. You'll need wizarding currency."
"Right, right, the vault." Ethan nodded rapidly, but he was still looking around in apparent amazement.
A witch walked past levitating three large parcels behind her. He stared openly.
"She's making those float! Just with her wand! That's—can you teach me that? Is that hard?"
"The Levitation Charm is taught in your first year," McGonagall said. "Professor Flitwick is an excellent instructor."
Ethan noticed an elderly wizard across the street whose robes were subtly changing color—blue to purple to deep crimson. He pointed.
"His robes! They're—why are they doing that?"
"Mood robes," Catherine said quietly. "Marcus had a set. They reflect the wearer's emotional state."
"That's brilliant," Ethan breathed.
And it was. His adult mind was cataloguing everything—the spell effects, the magical items, the infrastructure—but his external reaction was pure eleven-year-old excitement.
They were approaching Gringotts now, and the building was even more impressive up close.
Burnished bronze doors, gleaming in the sunlight. And standing at the entrance in a uniform of scarlet and gold—
"Is that a goblin?!" Ethan didn't quite shout it, but his voice rose with genuine shock.
The creature was indeed a goblin—barely four feet tall, with long fingers, shrewd dark eyes, and a pointed face. He watched the passing wizards with an expression of professional disdain.
"Goblins run Gringotts," McGonagall said. "They are the finest metalworkers and financiers in the magical world. Show them respect, Mr. Drake. They value courtesy and directness."
Ethan nodded seriously, still staring.
The goblin's eyes flicked to him, assessed him in a single glance, then dismissed him as unimportant.
He climbed the steps—white stone, worn smooth by centuries of use.
Above the doors, engraved in silver, was a warning:
Enter, stranger, but take heedOf what awaits the sin of greed,For those who take, but do not earn,Must pay most dearly in their turn.
"That's... ominous," Ethan said, a bit quieter now.
"It's meant to be," McGonagall replied. "Gringotts is the safest place in the magical world, but it's not wise to steal from goblins."
They passed through the bronze doors into a vast marble hall.
More goblins sat on high stools behind a long counter, working with scales, coins, ledgers. Some examined gems through jeweler's loupes. Others scratched notes in heavy books with quills.
The ceiling was vaulted, impossibly high. Chandeliers of crystal hung from chains, glowing with soft light—no candles, just light itself.
"Wow," Ethan whispered, and his voice echoed slightly.
McGonagall approached the nearest available goblin—a particularly sour-looking one with a nameplate that read Griphook.
Wait.
Griphook.
The goblin his father had mentioned. The one he'd said to trust.
Ethan's heart beat faster, but he kept his expression simply curious and slightly nervous.
"Good morning," McGonagall said crisply. "This is Mr. Ethan Drake, heir to Vault 547. He requires access for the first time. I am his escort from Hogwarts. This is his mother and guardian, Mrs. Catherine Thornton."
Griphook's dark eyes fixed on Ethan. Sharp. Assessing. Missing nothing.
"Marcus Drake's son," he said. His voice was gravelly, accented strangely. "Yes. We've been expecting you."
Ethan blinked. "You have?"
"Your father left instructions," Griphook said. "For when you came of age to enter the magical world." He extended a long-fingered hand. "Your key and documentation."
Ethan fumbled with his bag—let himself seem a bit clumsy, nervous—and produced the envelope.
Griphook examined the vault key first, holding it up to the light, checking the number. Then the inheritance certificate.
"Birth certificate for the guardian," he said to Catherine.
She handed over Ethan's. Griphook compared it to the other documents with meticulous precision.
"Everything is in order." He set the papers aside and looked at Ethan directly. "Your father was a skilled curse-breaker. He worked for Gringotts for nearly fifteen years. We valued his expertise."
There was something in his tone. Not quite sadness—goblins didn't seem the type—but... respect? Acknowledgment?
"I wish I'd known him better," Ethan said honestly. "He died when I was nine."
"Yes." Griphook's expression didn't change. "A great loss. The Egypt expedition was... unfortunate."
Ethan's internal alarms went off.
The way he'd said "unfortunate"—carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
But he was eleven. He didn't push.
"Can you tell me about him?" Ethan asked instead, letting his voice be smaller, more vulnerable. "What he was like? When he worked here?"
Griphook studied him for a long moment.
"Brilliant," he said finally. "Reckless. Honorable. He never cheated, never lied to Gringotts, never broke a contract. In our society, that matters more than magical talent."
He paused. "You carry his vault key. I hope you will carry his honor as well."
It was probably the nicest thing this goblin had said to anyone in years.
"I'll try," Ethan said quietly.
McGonagall looked pleased. Catherine had tears in her eyes.
Griphook nodded sharply. "Come. I will escort you to your vault personally. Your father would have wanted that."
He slid down from his stool and beckoned. Another goblin appeared to take his place at the counter.
"Mrs. Thornton, you may accompany us for the verification process," Griphook said. "After that, the heir may explore his vault privately, if he wishes."
"That's fine," Catherine said.
Griphook led them toward a door at the back of the hall.
Beyond it was—
Ethan stopped dead.
It was a railway. Miniature tracks disappearing into darkness, sloping downward at an impossible angle. Small carts waited on the rails.
"We're going down there?" His voice cracked slightly. Not entirely faked—this looked genuinely dangerous.
"The vaults are deep underground," Griphook said. "Some very deep indeed. Yours is a mid-level vault. The journey is quite safe."
He gestured to a cart.
Ethan climbed in, his mother beside him, McGonagall across from him. Griphook took the front position.
"Hold on," he advised.
The cart lurched forward and dropped.
Ethan yelped—genuine surprise—as the cart plunged down the track into darkness, picking up speed, whipping around corners, diving deeper and deeper beneath London.
Torches blurred past. He caught glimpses of passages branching off, massive doors with numbers, something large and scaled moving in the shadows—
Then the cart began to slow, banking around a final curve before stopping smoothly at a platform.
"Vault 547," Griphook announced.
Ethan climbed out on shaky legs—again, not entirely an act. That had been intense.
Before him was a plain bronze door with 547 embossed in the center. No handle. No lock. Just smooth metal.
Griphook took his key and pressed it against the door.
The metal rippled like water. The door swung inward.
Beyond it—