Lost Wand

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"Professor Ethan!" Hermione's eyes lit up the moment she saw him.

Without hesitation, she hurried over, her steps brimming with urgency.

Harry and Ron immediately perked up as well. To them, Professor Ethan was nothing short of an expert when it came to unraveling the mysteries surrounding Voldemort.

"Professor Ethan, Harry and..." Hermione began breathlessly, launching into an explanation of the current situation.

Ethan listened attentively, his expression growing more serious as she spoke. He motioned for everyone to sit, then turned his focus to Harry.

"Harry," Ethan said gravely, leaning forward, "can you tell me in detail about your dream?"

"Of course," Harry replied, his voice steady. He closed his eyes, concentrating, then began recounting the vivid scenes.

"In the end," Harry said, his tone faltering slightly, "I saw a mirror. When it shattered, I felt as if... I shattered with it."

As Harry finished, Ethan's brows knitted tightly. The weight of the situation was clear in his demeanor. He knew Harry's connection to Voldemort was unlike anything they had encountered.

And now, it seemed, another force had entered the fray—one meddling in the conflict between Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic.

The recent Death Eater riots at the Quidditch World Cup were undoubtedly tied to this unknown faction.

Breaking the tense silence, Harry hesitated before speaking again.

"Professor Ethan... I lost my wand. Is there any chance you could help me?"

Ethan glanced at Harry, his expression unreadable. Harry's hope was faint; he knew the odds of retrieving his wand from the chaos at the Quidditch camp were slim.

To Harry's astonishment, Ethan nodded.

"Your wand was left at the camp," he said simply, reaching into his robes.

With a small flourish, he placed Harry's wand on the table in front of him.

"Merlin's beard!" Harry gasped, grabbing the wand as though it might disappear.

Relief washed over him, and for the first time in days, the tension in his chest eased. Even the dull ache of his scar seemed to lessen.

"Thank you, Professor Ethan! You really found it!"

Ethan offered a small smile.

"The Aurors recovered it from the camp. I recognized it as yours and made sure it found its way back to you."

"Thank you!" Harry repeated fervently, inspecting the wand with care. He turned it over in his hands, checking every inch for damage, his relief almost palpable.

But Ethan's tone shifted.

"Harry, I have a question about your wand," he said evenly, drawing Harry's attention.

"Anything, Professor," Harry replied, his voice lighter now.

"What is it?"

Ethan's gaze hardened, his next words cutting through the air like a blade.

"The Aurors examined your wand using the Priori Incantatem. It revealed that the Dark Mark seen in the sky last night... was cast from this wand."

Harry froze. The color drained from his face as the room seemed to close in around him. Hermione and Ron, seated beside him, gasped audibly, their wide eyes reflecting the shock etched on Harry's face.

The Gryffindor common room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Ethan's revelation hanging heavily in the air.

"Professor Ethan! I swear, I didn't do it! Voldemort wants me dead—why would I ever help him?" Harry's face turned pale as he hurriedly defended himself.

"That's right, Professor Ethan! Harry couldn't possibly have done it—he was with us the entire time!" Hermione blurted out, her voice tinged with urgency.

Ron nodded fervently. "Yeah, no way Harry's involved in this!"

The room erupted into a chorus of frantic explanations, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of emotion.

"Quiet! Calm down!" Ethan's firm voice silenced them instantly. His eyes softened as he continued,

"Harry, I'm not accusing you of anything. I have no doubt about your innocence."

"Huh?"

Harry froze mid-protest, his words catching in his throat. Hermione and Ron exchanged sheepish glances, the tension in the air dissipating slightly.

Ethan took a breath before asking, "Harry, during the Quidditch World Cup last night, did anyone come into contact with you? Maybe bumped into you or touched you?"

Eager to shift focus, Harry scrunched his face in concentration, mentally retracing the chaotic events of the previous night.

"Well… we were with the Weasleys, but when the Death Eaters attacked, there was such a huge crowd. I don't remember anyone in particular," he admitted.

Ethan sighed quietly. The information was as vague as he feared. With the sheer number of witches and wizards at the event, the potential suspect pool was vast.

"Alright," Ethan said, his tone decisive.

"Harry, we need to speak with Dumbledore. He should know about your dream."

Harry nodded without hesitation. Hermione and Ron followed closely as Ethan led them to the headmaster's office.

The office door creaked open to reveal Dumbledore seated across from an unusually disheveled Lucius Malfoy.

Their conversation halted as both men turned their gazes toward the group.

"Ethan, Harry, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore greeted warmly, his familiar twinkle in his eyes.

"Welcome."

Harry greeted Dumbledore politely before his eyes drifted to Lucius.

Their history was fraught with animosity—Lucius had long regarded Harry as an obstacle, and Harry viewed Lucius as the embodiment of a Death Eater.

Yet, just last night, Lucius had inexplicably saved his life.

Summoning his courage, Harry said hesitantly, "Good morning, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius's eyes widened slightly at the unexpected civility. Without a word, he stood abruptly, addressing Dumbledore.

"I'll take my leave now." He strode past Harry without acknowledgment and exited the room.

The awkward silence that followed left Harry flustered. Hermione and Ron stared at him, bewildered by his uncharacteristic gesture toward Lucius.

Dumbledore broke the silence with a kind smile.

"Now, what brings you all here?"

"Professor, I had a dream," Harry began, launching into a detailed recounting of the vision that had haunted him.

As he spoke, Dumbledore listened intently, his expression growing increasingly grave. His piercing blue eyes shifted to Harry's scar, lingering there as if searching for answers.

When Harry finished, Dumbledore rose from his seat and paced slowly behind his desk, his hands clasped tightly. It was a rare sight—Dumbledore, the epitome of calm, visibly troubled.

"I understand, Harry," Dumbledore finally said, his voice raspier than usual.

"Tell me—has your scar only hurt this time, or have you felt pain at other moments as well? Even the slightest discomfort is important."

Harry shook his head quickly, the unease in the room making him anxious.

"No, Professor. It's only this time."

Dumbledore nodded but remained deep in thought, his eyes distant.

The weight of Harry's dream—and its implications—hung heavily in the room.