Ethan turned back to the cardboard box, studying it with adult eyes now.
His mother had packed this hastily two years ago—grief-stricken, probably just grabbing visible items from Marcus's study before Richard moved in and claimed the space.
But his father had been a curse-breaker. Someone who dealt with dangerous magical artifacts and ancient traps for a living.
Would he really leave everything important in a bank vault?
Ethan dumped the contents onto his bed systematically. The wedding photo. The broken watch. Three books on Egyptian history and archaeology. The leather portfolio he'd already used.
Nothing else visible.
But the box felt wrong.
He ran his fingers along the inside. Cardboard, normal depth. He measured with his eyes—the exterior height versus the interior.
Close, but... not quite exact.
There. A false bottom.
He dug his fingernails into the seam and pried carefully. The cardboard layer lifted, revealing a shallow hidden compartment.
Inside:
A small leather journal, bound with a strap. The cover was worn, water-stained in places.
Ethan's fingers tingled slightly when he touched it—the same sensation he'd felt with the magical ink. This had been handled by magic.
A folded piece of parchment, yellowed and brittle. A map of some kind, he realized as he unfolded it carefully.
It showed a street layout—Diagon Alley was labeled at the top. The shops were marked: Ollivanders, Flourish and Blotts, Gringotts at the end.
Someone—his father, probably—had made small annotations in the margins.
Next to "Knockturn Alley," a side street, he'd written: "Avoid unless necessary. Dark Arts trade. Useful but dangerous."
Three photographs lay beneath the map. But they weren't normal photographs.
In the first, two men stood outside a pyramid. One was clearly Marcus Drake—Ethan recognized him from his merged memories and the wedding photo.
Younger, maybe late twenties, grinning with the cocky confidence of someone who loved danger.
The other man was older, scarred, with an eyepatch. They both wore dusty travel robes.
And they were moving.
Not video, but the image shifted slightly. Marcus kept adjusting his hat. The scarred man occasionally laughed, though there was no sound.
Magical photographs. Of course they moved.
The second photo showed Marcus with a beautiful dark-haired woman in elegant robes, both holding glasses of something amber-colored.
A pub or restaurant, magical based on the floating candles in the background. The woman looked familiar somehow, though Ethan couldn't place why.
On the back, in Marcus's handwriting: "Andromeda Tonks, 1987. One of the good ones."
The third photo was more formal—a group shot. Six people in matching Gringotts uniforms.
Marcus was second from the left, younger still, maybe early twenties. His curse-breaker team, probably.
On the back: "Egypt team, 1983. Final expedition before everything went to hell."
Before everything went to hell? Interesting phrasing.
A small velvet pouch lay at the bottom, drawstring pulled tight. Ethan opened it carefully.
Inside: a handful of coins. Gold, silver, bronze.
He poured them into his palm.
Two Galleons. Five Sickles. A dozen or so Knuts.
Not much, but it was real magical currency. His father's pocket change, probably left in a jacket or drawer.
His mother must have found them and tossed them in the box, not knowing what they were.
Ethan set the coins aside and picked up the journal.
The first page, in Marcus's bold handwriting:
"Personal notes. Work journal. If you're reading this and I'm dead, well, shit. Sorry kid."
Even in death, he was casual.
Ethan flipped through. Most entries were technical—notes about curse structures, trap mechanisms, counter-spell theories.
But scattered throughout were more personal observations:
"April 12, 1987 - Catherine asked me today why I keep doing this. 'You have a family now,' she said. 'When are you going to stop risking your life for gold?' She doesn't understand. It's not about the gold. It's about the PUZZLE. Every tomb, every curse, it's a challenge someone set centuries ago. They thought they could make it unbreakable. I prove them wrong. That's worth more than gold. Though the gold is nice."
"June 3, 1988 - Ethan showed accidental magic today. Broke a glass when Catherine wouldn't give him sweets. She was upset, thought he was just throwing a tantrum. I saw it though—the glass cracked from across the room. He's going to be powerful. Need to start teaching him theory soon. Can't do practical until he gets a wand, but foundation matters."
Ethan felt a strange disconnect reading about himself as a small child.
Those weren't his memories—not the adult him. But they were embedded in this body's history.
"October 15, 1988 - The Nott job is bad news. They want me to break family wards on a manor in Wiltshire. 'Just remove the protections, Drake. We'll pay triple.' I know what they're really asking. They want access to something dark. Something dangerous. I told them no. Malfoy wasn't happy. Need to watch my back. These purebloods hold grudges."
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
Malfoy. Nott. Those names meant nothing to him now, but the context was clear—powerful families involved in shady business.
His father had refused them and made enemies.
"March 22, 1989 - The Egypt job came through. Six months in Luxor, breaking into the Tomb of Khatep. This is the big one. If we crack it, the artifacts alone will set up Ethan's inheritance for life. Gringotts is backing the expedition fully. Catherine is furious. Ethan starts Hogwarts in two years. 'Be here for your son,' she said. I will be. Just need to finish this one last job. Famous last words, right? Ha."
The entry ended there.
The next pages were blank.
Ethan sat back slowly, processing.
His father had died in Egypt on what he'd called "the big one." But the way he'd written about it—joking about "famous last words"—suggested he'd known it was dangerous.
Really dangerous.
The question crystallized in his mind: Did Marcus Drake die in an accident? Or was he killed?
Ethan flipped to the map again, studying the annotations more carefully.
Besides the Knockturn Alley warning, there were other notes:
Next to "Gringotts": "Vault 547. Emergency access protocols in place. Ask for Griphook."
Next to "Ollivanders": "Ethan will need his own wand. Don't let anyone pressure him into using mine. The wand chooses."
Next to "Slug & Jiggers Apothecary": "Quality potions ingredients. Worth paying extra."
At the bottom: "Leaky Cauldron - Tom is landlord. Friendly enough. Good place to overhear gossip."
This was a guide. His father had made this for him, probably intending to give it to him personally when he turned eleven.
Instead, he'd hidden it in case he didn't make it back.
The broken watch caught Ethan's eye again. He picked it up, examining it more closely.
The face was cracked, hands frozen at 3:47. But now he noticed—there were extra dials. Not just hours and minutes.
Small windows showing phases of the moon, planetary positions, something labeled "Danger Alert" with a needle pointing to "Safe."
A magical watch. Broken, but magical.
Ethan was carefully placing everything back in the hidden compartment when he heard a tapping at the window.
The owl was back.
That was... twenty minutes? Maybe thirty? Impossibly fast for normal mail.
The tawny owl landed on his windowsill and extended its leg with clear expectation.
Ethan retrieved the rolled parchment from the cylinder. The owl immediately took off again without waiting, apparently having other deliveries.
The letter was sealed with the Hogwarts crest. He broke it open.
---
Dear Mr. Drake,
Thank you for your prompt response. I am glad to hear of your acceptance.
Regarding your questions:
I will personally escort you to Diagon Alley this Saturday, 27th July, at 10:00 AM. Please meet me at The Leaky Cauldron public house on Charing Cross Road, London. The entrance is between a bookshop and a record shop. Muggles cannot see it, but you should be able to.
Your mother or guardian may accompany you if they wish.
As the son of Marcus Drake, you are the legal heir to Vault 547. Bring your vault key (should be among your father's effects) and I will ensure Gringotts releases access to you. At eleven, you cannot withdraw funds independently, but items stored in the vault can be retrieved with bank supervision.
Regarding wands: Each wizard's wand is unique. While you may ATTEMPT to use your father's wand, I strongly advise visiting Ollivanders for proper fitting. A matched wand will serve you far better than an inherited one.
Please bring your mother's identification and your birth certificate for Gringotts verification.
I look forward to meeting you on Saturday.
Yours sincerely,Professor Minerva McGonagallDeputy Headmistress
---
Ethan set the letter down carefully.
Today was Wednesday. He had three days to prepare.