Chapter 33: The Awaited Headline

Ethan stood at the broad mullioned window of Wright Manor's library, watching the sun climb over the perfectly manicured lawns of his family's summer estate. A soft breeze toyed with the ivy that crept along the stone walls, bringing with it the distant chirp of blackbirds and the rustle of ancient oaks. It was the fifth morning since the end of term, and in all that time he had done nothing but wander the gardens, practice a few spells for his own amusement, and read books in the shade. The world of Hogwarts and its relentless pace felt miles away.

He turned as a soft rap sounded at the library door. The house-elf, Philinor, stepped in carrying breakfast—rolled oats steaming in a silver bowl, slices of fresh fruit, and a teapot that whistled quietly on a small brazier. Noctis fluttered in moments later, landing lightly on the table's edge, talons clicking against the wood as he eyed the bowl of oats.

Ethan smiled faintly as the elf vanished. They hadnt interacted much, but it didnt matter. House elves didnt need anything but a job to do for them to be happy. He wasnt going to be like some people who would say that what the wizarding world did to house elves was slavery. Denying them service was akin to telling them to die.

Ethan poured the oats into a bowl and stirred in a drizzle of honey before sitting at the long oak table. Noctis hopped onto his knee, cooing softly as Ethan offered him a single rolled oat. The owl accepted it with delicate precision.

As Ethan took his first spoonful, a paper thudded onto the table. His mother, always a morning reader, had placed that morning's Daily Prophet in front of him.

Ethan unfolded it, scanning the front-page headline:

"Lockhart on Trial: Ministry to Prosecute Famed Author for Fraudulent Heroism"

He raised an eyebrow, not the least bit surprised. He had known this was coming ever since he'd asked his mother to investigate the author's suspicious claims. The article detailed what Lockhart was accused of: plagiarizing entire passages from other heroes' memoirs, memory-charming interviewees to erase evidence of his deceit, and claiming credit for rescues he never performed. But most important was the news that the trial would commence exactly two weeks hence, at the Wizengamot.

Ethan sipped his tea, reading further. The article named Chloe Wright—his mother—as the MLE investigator who had first uncovered the discrepancies in Lockhart's publications. It praised her diligence and quoted the Ministry's statement: "Miss Wright's evidence presented a compelling case for the prosecution of Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart, who now must answer for his fraudulent activity before the Wizarding courts."

He set the paper down, watching Noctis preen his feathers. The owl blinked at him, as though aware of the news.

A soft footstep echoed in the doorway. Lady Wright entered, her dark robes as immaculate as ever, a copy of the Prophet tucked under her arm. She moved with that same composed grace she always wore.

"Good morning, Mother," Ethan said, rising.

She nodded once, eyes flicking to the open paper. "I trust you've seen the news."

"I have." He paused, choosing his words. "Two weeks, they say. He's finally going to answer for everything." He tapped the headline.

Lady Wright permitted herself a small smile. "It is satisfying, yes. But we must remain objective. The Wizengamot is no place for theatrics. Evidence must be precise."

"As always," Ethan replied. "May I ask, if everything in his crimes is proven true, what sentence will he face?"

Lady Wright closed the gap between them, folding her hands over the paper. "Under the 1717 MLE Statute on Fraudulent Attribution and Unauthorized Memory Modification, Mr. Lockhart faces revocation of his license to publish, heavy fines, and in severe cases, incarceration in Azkaban for up to ten years, especially given the unauthorized use of the Memory Charm." She glanced at him. "However, the Ministry tends to be reluctant to send a name like Gilderoy Lockhart to Azkaban. I suspect they may opt for a substantial fine and a complete ban on teaching or publishing. But if the Memory Charm allegations stick…" Her voice trailed off.

Ethan absorbed that. Memory magic without consent was some of the gravest offenses. "Thank you," he said quietly. "It's good to know. He won't slip away from this."

Lady Wright nodded, her expression firm. "Indeed. I'll be presenting the evidence in person."

Ethan met her gaze, an idea forming. "I would like to be there. Can I?"

She studied him for a moment, then inclined her head. "Very well. I will arrange for you to attend. But remember, this is a formal proceeding. You will conduct yourself accordingly."

"I understand," he said. He felt a spark of something, anticipation perhaps, and turned back to his breakfast. The promise of justice, long delayed, had finally come.

Later that afternoon, Ethan slipped out into the sunlit gardens. He let the sound of water from the fountain guide him to a secluded stone terrace. He drew his wand and surveyed the neatly trimmed hedges, the sculpted topiaries, and the scattered garden ornaments. Perfect for a quick Transfiguration practice session.

"Verto acus."

He pointed at a fallen rose petal. It shimmered, thickening into a rough mimicking of ivory before collapsing back into its delicate form.

He moved to a small statue of a rabbit near the fountain, murmuring, "Avifors." The rabbit twitched, its stone form softening into the rough outline of a real rabbit, though its ears looked too short and the fur too stiff. He sighed. Closer.

"Verto poculum."

He targeted a shiny brass watering can. With a flick, it shimmered, the metal replacing itself with soft wood. A goblet stood where the can once had. Not perfect, but functional.

He strode to a marble bench.

"Transfiguro."

Half the bench disappeared, replaced by a sleek wooden stool. The other half remained unmoved. Practice more.

"Vero pluma."

He flicked at a wooden walking stick, intending to summon feathers. Instead, a single large, stiff quill sprouted from one end. The rest of the stick stayed the same. He frowned, corrected his gesture, and the quill vanished.

Over the next hour, Ethan repeated these spells, each attempt inching closer to perfection. His arm grew sore, his robes dusted with fragments of wood and stone. By the end, he stood among the half-transfigured objects, stone birds with wooden claws, ceramic pots with metal rims, an odd testament to his growing skill.

He extinguished the swirling motes of magic with a soft "Finite Incantatem," breathing heavily, exhilarated. Better, he thought. Much better.