The evening sun was beginning to dip below the Black Lake, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone floors of Hogwarts. The castle was eerily quiet, the usual hum of a thousand students replaced by the soft, distant creak of the building settling. Most had headed home, leaving only a few faculty members for whom the castle was their only true residence.
As Ethan and Tonks walked through the Transfiguration corridor, the sharp click-clack of boots on stone echoed ahead of them. Rounding the corner, they came face-to-face with Professor McGonagall.
Ethan froze.
The sight of the real Minervaāher hair pulled into that signature, severe bun, her spectacles perched sharply on her nose, and that unmistakable aura of stern disciplineācaused a total system crash in Ethan's brain. Every sensory detail of the previous night's "detention" with Tonks came rushing back in a vivid, high-definition loop.
His face went from casual to a strained, unnatural mask of suppressed panic. His eyes darted toward a suit of armor as if it were the most fascinating thing in Britain.
"Mr. Williams," McGonagall said, her brow furrowing as she stopped in front of them. "Is something the matter? You look as though you've just encountered a particularly stubborn Boggart."
Ethan let out a sound that was halfway between a cough and a wheeze. "No... no, Professor. Just... the lighting in this hallway. Very dramatic. Catching me off guard."
Behind him, Tonks was a disaster. She was vibrating with suppressed energy, her hand clamped firmly over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she fought to stifle a manic cackle. Her hair was flickering through shades of bright, guilty yellow.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed, darting between the two of them with suspicion. "I see. Well, if you have finished appreciating the 'dramatic lighting,' the Headmaster requested your presence in his office immediately. We have a visitor who has been quite insistent on making your acquaintance."
******
They followed McGonagall up the spiral staircase. When the doors to Dumbledore's office swung open, Ethan saw him.
Sitting opposite Dumbledore was a man who looked like an aging lion. He had a mane of tawny, ginger hair streaked with grey, and keen, yellowish eyes that sat behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. His face was a map of hard-won experienceāsharp, cunning, and etched with the weariness of a man who spent his life in the trenches.
This was Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic who had replaced the disgraced Cornelius Fudge.
Scrimgeour stood up as Ethan entered, leaning slightly on a walking stick, but his presence was anything but frail. He offered a hand, a practiced, sharp smile crossing his lips.
"Mr. Williams," Scrimgeour's voice was raspy, like gravel over silk. "A pleasure. A profound pleasure. I have been eager to meet the man who finally broke the Serpent's back."
Ethan took the hand, his grip firm but disinterested. "You've got the wrong guy, Minister. I was just the support. Harry and Albus did the heavy lifting."
"Ha! Modesty," Scrimgeour chuckled, though his eyes remained tactical, searching Ethan for any sign of weakness or political ambition. "Of course, of course. But the reports from the Aurorsāand from Severusāpaint a very different picture. Spatial manipulation, wandless mastery... the kind of magic that makes the Ministry's standard curriculum look like nursery rhymes."
Ethan leaned against a bookshelf, his eyes drifting to the Elder Wand sitting on Dumbledore's desk. "Let's skip the political foreplay, Rufus. I'm a bit tired. What do you want?"
*****
Scrimgeour didn't seem offended by the bluntness; if anything, he seemed to respect it. He shared a brief, knowing look with Dumbledore before turning back to Ethan.
"The Wizarding world is in a state of flux, Mr. Ethan," Scrimgeour said, his tone shifting to one of official gravity. "The public needs heroes they can believe in. They need to know that the darkness is gone for good. To that end, the Wizengamot held an emergency session this morning."
He reached into the pocket of his heavy traveling cloak and pulled out a small, ornate velvet box. He flipped the lid, revealing a gleaming medal of gold and green enamel.
"By unanimous vote," Scrimgeour announced, "the Ministry of Magic wishes to confer upon youāas well as Mr. Albus Dumbledore and Mr. Harry Potterāthe Order of Merlin, First Class. For 'outstanding bravery and defeating the Dark Lord.' It is the highest honor we can bestow."
Ethan stared at the medal. In this world, it was the pinnacle of achievement. To him, it was a shiny bit of metal that would likely end up in his dimensional pocket next to his spare socks and some Weasley products.
"The First Class?" Ethan asked, his voice flat. "Doesn't that usually come with a pension and a lot of boring dinner parties?"
"It comes with prestige, Mr. Williams," Scrimgeour countered, his eyes flashing. "And the gratitude of a nation. We would like to hold an official ceremony at the Ministry. A chance for the people to see the man who saved them. It would go a long way in stabilizing the current... uncertainty."
Ethan looked at Tonks, who was watching with a mix of pride and amusement, and then at Dumbledore, who simply gave a small, encouraging twinkle of his eyes.
"Prestige is just another word for 'target on your back,'" Ethan said, though a slow smirk began to form. "But I suppose I could use a new paperweight."
Author's Note:
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