The days that followed drifted by like pages in a well-thumbed book, gently turning, never rushed.
Ethan's summer, after the trial and the quiet celebration of his birthday, settled into a quiet and calming summer days. Life at the estate had always been calm, but now it felt almost serene, like the house and the grounds themselves were exhaling after the storm that had been Gilderoy Lockhart.
Mornings began the same, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains, the low sounds of the house-elf bustling about downstairs, and the quiet clink of cutlery by the time he made his way to breakfast. Most days, his mother would already be seated at the table, reading through various wizarding publications. The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, Magical Law Weekly. She would hum quietly as she flipped pages, and Ethan would sip his tea and wait for her to comment on something ridiculous she would have just read.
"Apparently someone claims to have discovered a fifth type of dragon egg," she'd say one morning, tapping a column. "It's just a painted rock."
Or, "The Department of Magical Transportation is trying to patent an emergency portkey system, again. It failed the last five trials. Turned one of the volunteers inside out."
He always listened. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he didn't. But it was a kind of comfort, how the world wasn't static, it being strange and magical and, occasionally, very stupid.
After breakfast, his days stretched open like a quiet canvas. Some days he read, lounging beneath the willow tree in the garden, finishing a book or two a week. He devoured theory texts, spellwork journals, magical creature studies, and even, at his mother's suggestion, a few biographies.
Other days, he practiced magic.
Transfiguration remained his focus. He could now turn pebbles into paperweights, twigs into quills, and, on one occasion, a moth into a perfectly still paper butterfly. He learned precision over power, control over flash. His mother never said it outright, but he could tell she was impressed.
There were even afternoons spent experimenting, alone in a quiet room upstairs with the windows flung open and the wind moving lazily through. Ethan tried layering an Air Cushion Charm beneath a levitation spell omce, to create a sort of hovering seat. It worked, briefly. Until it didn't. The crash had been loud enough for his mother to appear instantly in the doorway, wand drawn.
She hadn't scolded him. Just checked that he hadn't broken anything important, like his neck, and left him to it with a warning not to test anything without safeguards in place.
There were also a few spells he learned during the summer.
Expelliarmus, the disarming charm which was Harry's signature spell. The strength could range from simply disarming the opponent of whatever they were holding to doing that and blasting the disarmed individual back.
Petrificus Totalus, the full body binding curse. A spell which immobilizes the target regardless of whether it is moving or not, and if it's alive or not. Of course, if somethings already not moving, then what's the point in binding it.
Lastly, Aquamenti, the water making spell. A spell with a multitude of daily practical uses of conjuring water and possibility dangerous uses when controlling the waters pressure upon conjuring.
Ethan also made sure to do more practice with incindio, as he mostly practiced power over control during his first year. Now he can start a simple fireplace, light candles, or heat up cold tea.
Sometimes, when neither had things to do, they went into the nearby village. She made him do the talking, picking out mundane groceries or asking for postage. He didn't hate it, though he preferred when they went out at night. They once walked the entire estate perimeter beneath the stars, quiet but not in silence.
Noctis had grown even more curious. The shadowy raven-like creature followed Ethan almost everywhere now, perching on windowsills or nearby trees, or occasionally curling up like a cloud of smoke in the hallway while he studied. He was a presence, constant, loyal, and far too intelligent to be ignored.
There were visits from a few Ministry officials, quiet, professional ones. One was a man with a stiff spine and darker robes who'd come to confirm a few last details for the Lockhart sentencing paperwork. Another was a blonde witch from the Department of Magical Creatures who'd come to speak with Chloe about an ongoing dispute regarding werewolf rights. Ethan observed silently, noting how his mother handled each conversation with razor-sharp calm, as though every word was both deliberate and armed.
But there was nothing overwhelming. No new scandal. No fresh disaster.
The Prophet moved on from the Lockhart trial soon enough. One headline detailed an ongoing goblin rebellion in Eastern Europe; another exposed a scandal in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Rita Skeeter, thankfully, didn't publish any more stories with thinly-veiled jabs. Either she was satisfied with the attention she'd already wrung from the trial, or someone had told her, politely or otherwise, to stop.
Ethan was fine with either explanation.
Sometimes, at night, he thought about Hogwarts. Not with dread, but not exactly with anticipation either. It would be his second year. His first had been easy, but now he knew the world around him better. He knew what kind of things slipped through cracks. He knew who wore masks. Lockhart had been just one of many. The wizarding world had more shadows than he likely realized.
Still, there were things to look forward to.
He'd finally get access to more advanced magic. Maybe more freedom with the library. And perhaps more time to explore the castle's secrets, because Hogwarts did have secrets.
A few days before term started, it was time to head to diagon alley to get some final materials. He asked his mother to not get them ahead of time as there was something he wanted to be at a specific bookstore for.
A certain cursed diary was to be smuggled into Hogwarts by an unsuspecting first year.