26th August 1994, The Quidditch World Cup Campsite, Dartmoor, Devon, 8:14 AM
The campsite in the grey morning light looked like the site of a siege that had lifted—which was, Harry reflected, approximately accurate.
Tents were being struck with varying degrees of magical efficiency. Ministry officials moved through the rows in their formal robes, taking statements, repairing damage with wand-work that left scorch marks smoothed but not entirely erased. The moor itself bore the marks of the previous night: trampled grass, the lingering smell of extinguished fires, and in one section near the tree-line, a blackened circle where something had burned hot enough to fuse the earth.
The Atid Stella tent came down with the practised efficiency of something designed to be packed by people who knew what they were doing. Sam supervised whilst simultaneously fielding questions from a Ministry official who appeared to be documenting the locations of everyone who had intervened in the chaos. Draco stood slightly to one side, his grey eyes moving across the damaged campsite with an expression Harry had seen before—the particular stillness of a boy processing something he wished he didn't recognise.
"Safe travels," Sam said, clasping Arthur's hand with the warmth of genuine friendship tempered by the morning's grimness. "And Arthur—if the Ministry tries to make this your fault somehow, remind them I was there. I saw what happened. My testimony carries weight in certain rooms."
Arthur's expression held gratitude mixed with the weary resignation of a man who had worked at the Ministry long enough to know that blame had a way of finding convenient targets. "Thank you, Sam. That may prove necessary."
Sam turned to Harry. He didn't ruffle the boy's hair or offer platitudes. He simply looked at him with the steady regard of someone who had watched Harry hold his ground in a crisis and approved. "You did well last night. Your father has trained you properly."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said.
Draco stepped forward. He looked at Harry, then Ron, then Hermione, and his farewell carried the particular quality of someone who had shared something significant and was not certain how to acknowledge it. "I'll see you at school," he said. "Try not to get into too much trouble before term starts."
"No promises," Ron said, with a grin that was genuine despite the exhaustion.
They clasped hands briefly—Ron and Draco, an exchange that would have been unthinkable three years ago and was now simply what they did. Hermione hugged Draco with the brisk affection of someone who had decided he was worth keeping, and Harry received a nod that carried considerably more weight than the gesture suggested.
Then the Portkey activated—an old leather boot that Ethan had arranged through Ministry channels—and the familiar pull behind the navel dragged them away from the Devon moor and deposited them, with varying degrees of grace, in the field behind the Burrow.
Molly Weasley was waiting at the back door.
She had the expression of a mother who had spent the night listening to wireless reports and imagining every possible catastrophe that could befall her family, and who had then spent the early morning attempting to maintain calm whilst internally cataloguing all the ways things could have gone worse. When she saw Arthur emerging from the Portkey arrival point with all her children accounted for, her relief was visible.
Then she saw the Prophet tucked under Arthur's arm, and her expression shifted.
"Inside," she said. "All of you. Breakfast is ready, and we need to discuss this."
The Burrow's kitchen was warm in the way that kitchens become when someone has been cooking since before dawn to manage their worry. The table was laden—eggs, bacon, toast, porridge, tea, and the particular density of food that suggested Molly had been expressing love through calories with considerable determination.
She waited until everyone was seated. Then she produced her own copy of the Daily Prophet and set it on the table with the controlled precision of someone placing evidence.
The headline screamed across the front page in letters that seemed designed to be read from a considerable distance: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP. Below it, in slightly smaller but no less dramatic font: Dark Mark Sparks Panic — Ministry Responds Hours Late — Muggles Endangered.
The byline read: Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.
Arthur's expression completed a brief journey from tired to resigned to quietly furious. He picked up the paper and began to read aloud, his voice carrying the particular flatness of someone who had encountered Rita Skeeter's work before and harboured no illusions.
"'Scenes of terror greeted revellers at the Quidditch World Cup last night as Death Eaters—followers of You-Know-Who—launched a brazen attack on Muggle campers, levitating a family of four to terrifying heights whilst Ministry officials allegedly stood by for over an hour before responding. Sources close to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement suggest that senior officials, including Arthur Weasley of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, were present at the campsite but failed to intervene in a timely manner, raising serious questions about Ministry competence and the current administration's ability to protect magical citizens from the growing threat of Dark wizard activity.'"
He set the paper down with controlled care.
"That," he said, "is approximately thirty per cent accurate and seventy per cent theatrical invention designed to sell papers and make the Ministry look incompetent."
"You intervened immediately," Hermione said, her voice sharp. "We watched you run toward the chaos. You didn't stand by for an hour—"
"Rita Skeeter doesn't write what happened," Arthur said wearily. "She writes what will create the most dramatic narrative. The truth is a starting point, not a constraint."
Molly's expression had taken on the quality it acquired when she was choosing between several equally unsatisfying options and settling on the least terrible. "Arthur, you'll need to go to the Ministry. Today. Before this takes root."
"I know." Arthur looked at his tea with the expression of a man contemplating whether caffeine would improve the coming ordeal or merely postpone the inevitable. "Percy, you're coming with me. You know the International Cooperation department's procedures, and if Crouch has been pulled into this—which he will have been, given that he was supposed to be in the Top Box, your presence might smooth some of the interdepartmental friction."
Percy straightened with the visible satisfaction of someone whose competence had been recognised. "Of course, Father. I'll prepare a briefing summary during the Floo journey."
Ethan, who had been listening with the quiet attention of someone cataloguing the situation, reached across and placed one hand briefly on Arthur's shoulder. "Sam will be there. He's already planning to give his account to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement this morning. His testimony will carry considerable weight—former Senior Auror, head of the Department of Mysteries, personally involved in the response. It's difficult to accuse the Ministry of incompetence when Samantheus Faramundo is on record stating that the response was immediate and effective."
Some of the tension left Arthur's shoulders. "Thank you, Ethan. That... that will help considerably."
The adults departed for the Ministry—Arthur via the Floo Network with Percy at his shoulder already reciting procedural points, Ethan remaining behind with a murmured comment about needing to review some documents and the kitchen settled into the particular quiet of young people processing the morning's revelations.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny gathered around the table. Ginny had been characteristically quiet since their return, her presence more observer than participant, but her brown eyes were sharp and her attention absolute.
Hermione spread the Prophet article across the table and read it with the focused intensity of someone conducting a forensic examination. Her expression grew progressively more incredulous.
"This is—" she began, then stopped, recalibrated, and tried again. "This is barely journalism. Half of these quotes are anonymous 'sources close to' various departments. There's no verification. No attempt to establish an actual timeline. She's simply constructed the most sensational possible narrative and presented it as fact."
"That's Rita Skeeter," Ron said, with the weary expertise of someone whose family had been featured in the Prophet enough times to develop opinions. "She doesn't report news. She creates it. Dad says she's got contacts all over the Ministry, people who feed her gossip in exchange for favourable coverage—and she uses it to write stories that make everyone look either incompetent or suspicious."
"But the Prophet is—" Hermione's voice carried genuine distress. "It's supposed to be Magical Britain's newspaper of record. People trust it. How can they employ someone who just makes things up?"
"Because people buy it," Ginny said quietly. Her voice had the particular quality of someone who had thought about this and arrived at uncomfortable conclusions. "Mum reads the Prophet every morning. So does everyone we know. And the articles that sell the most papers aren't the accurate ones—they're the dramatic ones. The ones that make you angry or scared or convinced that someone needs to be blamed."
"The twisted truth," Ron added, reaching for another piece of toast. "That's what Fred and George call it. Take something that happened, find the angle that makes it sound worst, add some anonymous quotes from 'concerned sources,' and present it like you're doing important investigative work. People eat it up."
Harry had been quiet, his emerald eyes moving between the article and his friend's faces. Now he spoke.
"She tried to do it to Atid Stella," he said.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him.
"Rita Skeeter," Harry clarified. "More than three years ago—just after the company opened properly. She showed up at the Main Hall trying to dig up scandals. Or if she couldn't find scandals, to create them."
"What did she go after?" Hermione asked.
"The hiring practices, mainly." Harry's expression held the particular stillness it acquired when he was recounting something that had made him genuinely angry. "Atid Stella employs house-elves—pays them, gives them days off, treats them like staff rather than property. They've got goblins working the contract desk. A werewolf runs inventory management. A Squib handles customer relations. Rita wrote three separate articles suggesting this was dangerous, irresponsible, possibly illegal, definitely suspicious. She kept trying to get quotes from 'concerned customers' about how they didn't feel safe shopping somewhere that employed 'dangerous creatures and magical inferiors.'"
"That's—" Hermione's hands had clenched on the table. "That's vile. That's not journalism, that's—"
"Bigotry with a byline," Ron finished. "Yeah. Sounds about right for Skeeter."
"Miss Rogeiros stood up to her every time," Harry continued. "Refused to give her quotes she could twist. Refused to let her interview staff without their consent. Refused to provide customer lists. Rita kept coming back—she's persistent—until Uncle Sam and Dad personally told her that if she published another article suggesting Atid Stella's employment practices were anything other than exemplary, they'd sue for defamation and she'd spend the next year in depositions explaining exactly which facts she'd invented."
"Good," Hermione said, with feeling.
"She published one more article after that," Harry said. "A small piece in the back pages suggesting that Atid Stella's 'controversial staffing choices' had 'raised eyebrows in certain circles,' with a quote from an anonymous 'long-time Diagon Alley merchant' expressing concern. Miss Rogeiros sent an owl to the Prophet's legal department the same day with a comprehensive breakdown of why every claim in the article was either factually incorrect or unsupported defamation. The Prophet printed a retraction two days later. Rita hasn't written about Atid Stella since."
"I still can't believe," Hermione said slowly, her voice carrying genuine distress, "that the Prophet... a newspaper people trust employs someone who operates like this. How is she allowed to keep writing?"
"Again because she's profitable," Ginny said. Her voice was quiet but certain.
Ron nodded. "Oh and you should know this... she's got sources everywhere. People are scared of her. If you make an enemy of Rita Skeeter, you'll find yourself featured in her next article—and whatever she writes about you won't be flattering or true, but it'll be public and people will believe it."
Harry pushed his glasses up his nose—a gesture he made when thinking. "That's why I like the Quibbler better."
Three faces turned to him with expressions ranging from curiosity to mild concern about his judgement.
"The Quibbler doesn't edit the truth," Harry explained. "They publish exactly what people tell them. If someone says they saw a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Sweden, the Quibbler reports that this person claims to have seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Sweden. They don't verify it. They don't investigate whether Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are real—"
"They're not real," Hermione interjected, reflexively.
"—they just print what was said," Harry continued. "Which means yeah, half of what's in the Quibbler is probably nonsense. But it's honest nonsense. It's what the person actually believed and actually said, not some journalist's twisted version designed to sell papers or settle grudges."
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny shared a look—the particular look of people who had just heard an argument that was simultaneously absurd and weirdly compelling.
"That's..." Hermione began.
"Completely mental," Ron finished.
"But you've got a point," Ginny admitted. "At least with the Quibbler you know you're reading someone's genuine weird beliefs rather than a journalist's manufactured outrage."
"Exactly," Harry said.
Hermione looked at the Prophet article again, then at Harry, and her expression suggested she was revising her opinion of both the Quibbler and the nature of truth in journalism. "I think," she said slowly, "I need to reconsider some of my assumptions about what makes a reliable source."
"Welcome to wizarding media," Ron said cheerfully. "It's terrible and we're all just doing our best."
Later that afternoon, after the lunch washing-up had been managed and Molly had been convinced that yes, everyone was genuinely all right and no, nobody needed to be examined by a Healer, Harry found himself in Ron's room with Ron and Hermione.
The room was small and warm and orange in the particular way that Ron's room was orange—the Chudley Cannons posters contributing the majority of the colour saturation—and the three of them had arranged themselves in the configuration they'd used since first year: Harry on the bed, Ron in the desk chair turned backward, Hermione on the floor with her back against the bed frame.
Harry pulled an envelope from his satchel. The handwriting on the front was Sirius's—slightly uneven, written quickly, the particular script of someone whose hands had spent ten years in Azkaban and had not entirely recovered their former precision.
"Sirius wrote," Harry said.
Ron and Hermione's attention sharpened.
Harry unfolded the letter and read aloud:
"Harry—
Got your letter about the dream and the scar. I don't like it. Neither does Remus.
The timing worries me. Your scar hurting, then the Death Eater attack, then the Dark Mark—that's not coincidence. I don't know what it means, but I know what it feels like, and it feels like the lead-up to the last war. Things building in the shadows until they explode into the open.
Stay alert. Stay close to Ethan. And Harry—I know you're brave, I know you're capable, I know you've got training most adult wizards would envy. But if things get dangerous, you run. You don't stand and fight, you don't try to be a hero, you use that pocket watch and you get somewhere safe. Promise me.
I'll keep my ear to the ground. Remus has contacts still, and I'm... well, I'm establishing new ones. If we hear anything concrete, you'll know immediately.
Stay safe. Write soon.
Padfoot"
Silence settled over the room.
"He's worried," Hermione said, which was both obvious and necessary to acknowledge.
"He's right to be," Ron said. His usual lightness had been replaced by something more serious—the tone he used when discussing Quidditch strategy or chess tactics, the voice of someone engaging with a problem that mattered. "Your scar hurt three weeks ago. Then the World Cup attack. Then the Dark Mark. That's..."
"A pattern," Harry finished. "I know."
"How much did it hurt?" Hermione asked. "The scar, I mean. You said it was aching."
Harry's hand went automatically to his forehead—a gesture he made without thinking whenever the topic arose. His fingers found the scar through his hair. It was considerably less prominent than it had been at age eleven—the lightning-bolt shape still there but faded, the tissue smoothed, the angry red reduced to a pale silver that was barely visible unless you knew to look for it.
"Just an ache," he said. "Not pain exactly. More like... pressure. Like something pushing against the inside of my skull, but gently. It lasted maybe ten minutes and then faded."
"That's better than it used to be," Ron observed. "Remember first year? When it hurt you'd go pale and have to sit down."
"The training helped," Harry said. Which was true but incomplete—Ethan's training had done something to the scar, something Harry had noticed over three years but which Ethan had never explained and Harry had never pressed. The Cogitation helped. The physical conditioning helped. The careful, methodical strengthening of his magical core helped. The scar had faded, the pain had lessened, and Harry had chosen to consider this progress rather than interrogate why it was happening.
'Dad knows,' he thought. 'He's been treating it somehow through the training. Making it less visible, less connected, less able to hurt me. He's never said so directly, but I know. And I trust him to tell me when I need to know rather than when I want to know.'
"Do you think it'll come back?" Hermione asked quietly. "Voldemort, I mean. Actually come back."
The name sat in the air between them. Hermione was the only one of the three who used it without hesitation—Ron still preferred "You-Know-Who" and Harry used both interchangeably depending on context—but the weight of it was shared.
"I think he's trying," Harry said. "The diary was an attempt. Whatever happened with Quirrell in first year was an attempt. The attacks last year were connected somehow—Ethan's been tracking Mordred Slythra, and Mordred's connected to Voldemort, and the Chamber business was definitely Voldemort's doing even if the mechanism was complicated." He looked at his hands. "It feels like he's been trying different approaches. Testing different methods. And eventually one of them will work."
"Then we stop it," Ron said, with the straightforward certainty of someone who had decided that complexity would not be permitted to interfere with the fundamental truth. "Same as we've done before. We figure out what he's planning, we tell the adults, and if the adults can't handle it we handle it ourselves."
"Ron—" Hermione began.
"I'm not saying we should go looking for trouble," Ron clarified. "I'm saying if trouble finds Harry—which it does, with suspicious regularity—we're not leaving him to deal with it alone. We're a unit. That's how this works."
Hermione looked at Ron for a long moment, then at Harry, and her expression carried the complicated mixture of exasperation and affection that had become her default when dealing with her two best friends' particular approach to danger. "We're a unit," she agreed. "But we're a unit that uses our brains and tells responsible adults when we're in over our heads, not a unit that tries to fight Dark wizards without backup."
"Obviously," Ron said. "We're not stupid."
"We're occasionally stupid," Harry corrected. "But we're getting better."
...
The Weasleys' farewells were warm and prolonged—Molly hugged Harry with sufficient force to compress his ribcage, Arthur clasped his shoulder with paternal warmth, and the twins presented him with a small package that they assured him was "nothing dangerous, mostly harmless, probably won't explode" which was considerably less reassuring than they seemed to think.
Ginny's goodbye was quieter. She had spent most of the visit in the background, present but not intrusive, observant but not demanding attention and her farewell carried the particular quality of someone who wanted to say something but wasn't certain how.
"I know i had said this but... Thank you," she said finally. "For everything.... The Chamber.... Thank you."
Harry, whose response to gratitude had always been a complicated mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, managed something between a nod and a smile. "You're welcome. I'm just glad you're all right."
"I am," Ginny said. And then, with the sudden decisiveness of someone who had made a choice: "And I'm going to keep being all right. No more being the damsel. Next time something terrible happens, I'm helping."
"Next time something terrible happens," Harry said, "I'm going to try very hard to make sure you're nowhere near it."
"Good luck with that," Ginny said, with a small smile that suggested she knew exactly how likely that was.
Then Ethan activated the Portkey—a teacup this time, considerably more dignified than a boot—and London pulled them home.
27th August 1994, 221B Baker Street, London, 9:23 AM
The morning arrived with the particular grey quality that London mornings possessed when summer was thinking about becoming autumn but hadn't quite committed. Harry sat at the desk in his room with two pieces of parchment before him, a self-inking quill in hand, and the focused expression of someone composing important correspondence.
The letter to Sirius and Remus was straightforward—a factual account of the World Cup attack, confirmation that everyone was safe, reassurance that Ethan had been present and had handled the situation, and a promise to write again soon with any developments. Harry had learned, over the years of correspondence, that Sirius needed concrete information rather than vague reassurances, and that Remus appreciated precision.
The letter to Luna was more difficult.
Not because the content was complicated—she needed to know about the attack, needed to be reassured they were safe, needed to understand that something was building but because Harry found himself wanting to convey something he couldn't quite articulate. The relief of having survived. The strangeness of watching Death Eaters scatter in fear. The weight of standing in a forest clearing while the Dark Mark hung overhead and feeling, quite clearly, that the world was shifting into something darker.
He settled for facts and a promise: We're all safe. Dad and Uncle Sam handled it. I'll tell you properly when I see you. Write back soon. I miss you.
He was sealing the second letter when voices from downstairs filtered through his partially open door.
Ethan's voice, measured and clear. Then a second voice, familiar but slightly distorted by the Floo connection—Sam's baritone carrying the particular quality that Floo conversations always had, as though the speaker were simultaneously very close and calling from a great distance.
Harry stood. He moved to the door and opened it further, not quite eavesdropping but not quite not eavesdropping either—the particular listening state of a boy who had learned that adult conversations sometimes contained information relevant to his continued survival.
"—confirmed it was Moody's house," Sam was saying. "The wards were triggered around eleven o'clock last night—approximately two hours after the World Cup attack. By the time the Aurors responded, the place had been completely ransacked. No sign of Moody himself."
Ethan's voice, calm but carrying an undertone Harry had learnt to recognise as concern: "Kidnapping or murder?"
"Kidnapping, we think. There's no body, no blood, no evidence of a fight beyond the damaged wards. Whoever took him knew what they were doing—they disabled his paranoia measures, got through his defensive enchantments, and extracted him without leaving traces. That's not opportunistic. That's planned."
"Moody is... was one of the most dangerous Aurors the Ministry ever employed," Ethan said. "Taking him alive would require either overwhelming force or considerable cunning. Or both."
"Both, definitely both." Sam's voice carried grim respect. "Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody didn't earn that nickname by being easy to ambush. The man's survived more assassination attempts than most Aurors see combat encounters. Someone very good took him, or someone very lucky, and I don't believe in luck on this scale."
There was a pause. Then Sam's voice again, quieter: "This is connected to the World Cup, isn't it? Not coincidentally. Not parallel operations. This is the same thing."
"Yes," Ethan said.
Another pause, longer. When Sam spoke again, his voice carried the particular quality of someone who had reached a conclusion and was not pleased by it: "It's starting again. Actually starting. Not probing, not testing—active operations. Coordinated. Planned."
"Yes," Ethan said again.
Harry heard the sound of a chair moving—Ethan standing, perhaps, or settling differently. Then Ethan's voice, directed toward the stairs: "Harry, if you're going to listen, come down properly rather than hovering at the landing."
Harry, who had indeed been hovering at the landing, descended with the slightly sheepish expression of someone who had been caught but was not particularly sorry about it.
Ethan looked at him from the study doorway, his expression holding neither approval nor disapproval—simply acknowledgement. In the fireplace beyond, Sam's face was visible in the green flames, and he inclined his head in greeting.
"Morning, Harry," Sam said. "Enjoying the eavesdropping?"
"Learning things," Harry corrected.
"Fair," Sam allowed.
Ethan gestured Harry into the study. The room was warm, the morning light filtering through the tall windows, the familiar smell of old books and tea creating the particular atmosphere that Harry associated with safety and learning.
"The man we were discussing," Ethan said, settling into his chair and indicating that Harry should take the other, "is Alastor Moody. You'll likely hear about this through other channels soon, the Ministry won't be able to keep it quiet—so you might as well hear it accurately first."
"Uncle Sam said he was an Auror," Harry said. "You mentioned that yesterday—evil wizard catchers."
"That's... a considerable simplification," Ethan said, with the mild tone he used when Harry had technically understood something but missed important nuance, "but functionally accurate. Aurors are the Ministry's elite law enforcement—they hunt Dark wizards, investigate major magical crimes, and handle situations that regular Ministry officials can't manage. Think of them as the magical equivalent of... specialist police, perhaps. Highly trained, heavily armed, legally permitted to use force that would be criminal for anyone else."
"Like Uncle Sam used to be," Harry said.
"Like Sam used to be," Ethan agreed. "He was a Senior Auror which means he led teams, planned operations, and dealt with the most dangerous targets. Moody was in the same category. One of the best the Ministry ever produced. Paranoid, ruthless when necessary, absolutely committed to catching Dark wizards, and very, very good at staying alive in situations designed to kill him."
"And someone took him," Harry said.
"Someone took him," Ethan confirmed. "Which tells us several things. First, that whoever is orchestrating these attacks has both the resources and the skill to neutralise one of Britain's most dangerous Aurors. Second, that they wanted him alive—which suggests they need him for something, or need something he has. Third, that this is escalating."
Harry absorbed this. His mind was already making connections—the World Cup attack, the Dark Mark, now Moody's disappearance, all within twenty-four hours. "This is Voldemort, isn't it? Or people working for him."
Ethan's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes acknowledged the question. "That's the most probable explanation. Though proof and probability aren't the same thing."
"What does the Department of Mysteries do?" Harry asked suddenly. The question had been forming since he'd heard Sam's title mentioned. "Uncle Sam runs it, but I don't actually know what it does."
"The Department of Mysteries," Ethan said, and his tone carried the particular quality it acquired when discussing things he knew more about than he was permitted to say, "studies phenomena that aren't fully understood. Time. Death. Prophecy. Love. Thought. The deep questions of magic that don't have easy answers. They research, they experiment, they catalogue, and they keep most of their findings classified."
"Why classified?"
"Because knowledge is dangerous," Ethan said simply. "The more powerful the knowledge, the more dangerous it becomes in the wrong hands. The Department of Mysteries exists partly to understand magic's mysteries, and partly to ensure that certain discoveries never leave the building. Thus the personnel of Department are called The Unspeakable."
"And your department? You work for the Ministry too, but I don't actually know what you do there."
Ethan smiled slightly. "I used to be an Unspeakable before...." A certain Sunflower crossed Ethan's mind before he quickly shook it off with a smile. "Now, the Department of Mysteries employs me as a... consultant on temporal and probability-related phenomena. Which is a formal way of saying they occasionally ask me to divine things for them, and I occasionally agree if the request aligns with my own interests and doesn't compromise my principles."
"So you work for them when you feel like it," Harry translated.
"Essentially," Ethan agreed. "Sam tolerates this arrangement because I'm useful enough that having me available part-time is better than not having me at all, and I tolerate it because it gives me access to resources I wouldn't otherwise have."
Harry considered this. Then: "Could I be an Unspeakable? Eventually?"
Ethan looked at him with the particular attention he gave when Harry asked questions that mattered. "You have the skills for it. The training I've given you would serve you well—combat magic, physical conditioning, tactical thinking, academic ability, research capability, the ability to remain calm under pressure. The question isn't whether you could. The question is whether you should."
"What's the difference?"
"Capability and calling aren't the same thing," Ethan said. "You could be an Unspeakable. You'd probably be good at it. But whether that's what you should dedicate your life to—whether that's the path that will bring you satisfaction and purpose—that's something only you can determine. And you're fourteen. You have time to decide."
Harry nodded slowly. Something had shifted in his thinking, it appealed in a way he couldn't quite articulate.
"Think about it," Ethan said. "But not too hard. You've got two more years before you need to make N.E.W.T. choices, and four before you need to make career choices. For now, focus on staying alive and learning everything you can."
"That's my usual plan," Harry said.
"It's served you well so far," Ethan observed.
From the fireplace, Sam's voice emerged one final time: "Ethan, I need to go. Meeting with Crouch in twenty minutes about the World Cup response. I'll send word if there's news about Moody."
"Understood," Ethan said. "And Sam—be careful. If they took Moody, they're targeting specific people for specific reasons. Make sure you're not on that list."
"Always careful," Sam said. "It's how I've stayed alive this long."
The flames flickered and died, leaving the study quiet save for the ticking of Ethan's pocket watch on the desk.
Harry sat in the chair and looked at his father—at the man who had trained him, protected him, taught him to think and fight and see the world clearly. The man who worked for the Department of Mysteries but kept his own counsel. The man who had known this was coming and had been preparing Harry for it without ever saying so directly.
"It's really starting again, isn't it?" Harry said quietly. "Whatever happened in the last war. It's happening again."
Ethan looked at him with the steady regard of someone who would not lie but would choose his words carefully. "Something is building," he said. "Whether it's the same as the last war or something new remains to be seen. But yes, Harry. The world is shifting. And we need to be ready for it."