Ethan froze at the threshold, the vault door standing open before him like a mouth of darkness.
For a moment—just a moment—he wasn't the calculating transmigrator with an adult mind.
He was just an eleven-year-old boy about to walk into his dead father's vault.
He turned to his mother.
"Mum?" His voice came out smaller than he'd intended.
Catherine's face crumpled slightly. She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Her eyes were wet.
"It's alright, sweetheart," she said softly. "Your father wanted you to have these things. He left them for you."
"I know, but..." Ethan looked back at the darkness beyond the door. "It just feels like... he should be here. To show me himself."
McGonagall's stern expression softened further. Even Griphook seemed to pause respectfully.
Catherine crouched down slightly to Ethan's level.
"He would be so proud of you right now, Ethan. Going to Hogwarts. Becoming a wizard like him. This is his gift to you—everything he wanted you to have."
Ethan nodded, swallowing hard. He let his hand find hers and squeezed.
"Okay," he whispered.
Together, they stepped through the doorway.
---
The vault was medium-sized—about fifteen feet square, carved from solid rock.
Torches flared to life as they entered, bathing everything in warm golden light.
And there, in the center of the vault, was his inheritance.
Gold. Mountains of it.
Galleons were piled in neat stacks along one wall, glinting in the torchlight. Sickles filled several leather bags. A smaller chest overflowed with bronze Knuts.
Ethan's adult mind made rapid calculations—three thousand Galleons, give or take. A fortune by wizarding standards.
But it wasn't the money that drew his eye.
On a simple wooden table against the far wall sat a collection of items arranged with obvious care.
Like someone had placed them there deliberately, knowing he would see them exactly like this.
Marcus Drake's wand lay in the center.
Twelve inches of dark blackthorn wood, the handle worn smooth from years of use. Even from here, Ethan could see a faint shimmer around it—residual magic, perhaps, or just the vault's lighting playing tricks.
Beside it, a thick leather-bound book rested closed.
The cover was dark brown, cracked with age, with no title visible. But Ethan could see symbols tooled into the leather—runes, sigils, geometric patterns that seemed to shift slightly when he wasn't looking directly at them.
The Drake Family Grimoire.
His father's letter had said it contained powerful magic. Some of it dark.
Ethan's pulse quickened.
Next to the grimoire was something folded and silvery—fabric that shimmered between substantial and translucent.
The Invisibility Cloak.
Even folded, it looked impossibly fluid, like mercury made into cloth.
And scattered around these three central items were other objects: a set of curse-breaking tools with runes etched along their lengths, several sealed scrolls tied with ribbon, a small jewelry box, two crystalline vials filled with swirling silver liquid, a scarab amulet on a chain.
And propped against the grimoire—a sealed envelope with his name written in his father's handwriting.
Ethan Marcus Drake
The letter Marcus had left at the bank. Different from the one at home.
"Oh, Marcus," Catherine breathed behind him. Her voice broke.
McGonagall stood in the doorway, observing quietly. Griphook remained at the entrance, professional and still.
Ethan took a few steps forward, drawn to the table like gravity.
His internal monologue was racing.
The grimoire is priority one. That's knowledge, power. The wand—I can't use it, need my own, but it might have sentimental value or be worth studying. The cloak is immediately useful. Tools are practical. The letter might have critical information about Egypt. The vials—if those are memories, they could be evidence. The amulet is from Egypt, probably from the expedition.
Externally, he just stared, wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
"There's so much," he whispered.
"Your father was a successful curse-breaker," Griphook said from the doorway. "These are the fruits of fifteen years of service. He accumulated wealth, knowledge, and artifacts. All now yours."
Ethan reached out slowly toward the wand, then paused, looking back at his mother uncertainly.
"Can I...?"
"It's yours, Ethan," she said gently. "All of it."
His fingers brushed the blackthorn wood—
And for just an instant, he felt it.
A flicker of warmth. Like the wand knew him. Like it remembered being held by hands with blood similar to his.
Then it faded. The wand remained inert.
It had chosen Marcus. It wouldn't choose him.
But still—there had been something.
Ethan picked it up carefully, testing the weight. Twelve inches. Heavier than he'd expected. The wood was smooth, dark, beautiful.
"Will it work for me?" he asked Griphook.
"Wands are loyal to their owners," the goblin said. "It may work reluctantly for you, given your blood connection. But it will never serve you as well as it served him. You should acquire your own."
Ethan nodded, setting it down gently, almost reverently.
His eyes went to the grimoire.
That was what he really wanted. Knowledge. Power. Dark magic that could give him advantages no one expected.
But he couldn't seem too eager.
"What's in the book?" he asked, reaching for it.
"Stop."
McGonagall's voice was sharp. Ethan froze.
She stepped into the vault properly for the first time, moving to the table. Her eyes were on the grimoire, and her expression had gone very serious.
"That," she said carefully, "is a family grimoire. Likely containing spells and knowledge accumulated over generations of Drakes."
She looked at him directly.
"Some of which may be... questionable. Or dangerous."
"Dangerous how?" Ethan kept his voice curious, not defensive.
"Dark magic," McGonagall said bluntly.
"Your father's family line was old, Mr. Drake. Not all old families were particular about the types of magic they practiced or recorded. I suspect this book contains spells that are... not taught at Hogwarts. Nor should they be."
Ethan's heart was pounding.
She was basically confirming the grimoire had exactly what he wanted.
But he schooled his expression to nervous uncertainty.
"Should I not take it, then?"
McGonagall paused. He could see her weighing options.
"It's your inheritance," she said finally. "I cannot forbid you from taking what is rightfully yours. But I would advise caution. Such books should be studied carefully, if at all. And never should you attempt anything from it without supervision or understanding of the consequences."
"I'll be careful," Ethan promised.
I'll be careful not to get caught.
McGonagall didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded.
Ethan turned his attention to the envelope with his name on it.
His father's second letter. The one left at the bank.
"May I read this?" he asked no one in particular.
"Of course," his mother said.
He picked up the envelope. The seal was wax, stamped with a sigil he didn't recognize—probably the Drake family crest.
His hands were shaking slightly as he broke it open.