Y/n had been at it for hours. Her hands were grimy, her back ached, and she’d already filled three sacks with what could only be described as cursed junk—tarnished silverware engraved with serpents, moth-eaten tapestries depicting unpleasant family trees, and a disturbing number of house-elf heads mounted on plaques.

She pulled a heavy, moth-bitten sheet from a large, rectangular shape in the corner. Dust motes danced in the sliver of afternoon light from the grimy window. Underneath was a trunk.

It was made of dark, aged leather, worn at the corners but still sturdy. The clasp was tarnished silver. And there, on the front, engraved in elegant, swirling script, were three initials.

S.O.B.

The hinges protested with a soft, weary creak as she lifted the lid.