Y/n sat propped against the headboard of the large four-poster bed, a worn copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard open in one hand. Lyra, two years old and utterly boneless with sleep, was curled in her lap, her breath soft and even. Orion and Scorpius lay sprawled on either side, a tangle of blond hair and pyjama-clad limbs, their eyes fixed on their mother with the intensity only children possess.

A sudden crack of apparition sounded from the hallway below. Then footsteps—deliberate, familiar—climbing the stairs.