It was a Thursday night, one month until final N.E.W.T.s, one month until the world outside these walls became real. For now, the only reality was the fire crackling in the grate, the smell of old books and damp stone, and the comfortable, worn-in silence between the six of you.

Then, a searing, blinding fork of white-green lightning—impossible, this deep under the lake—sliced through the center of the common room. It didn’t strike the floor. It hung in the air for a heartbeat, sizzling with ozone and raw magic, before vanishing with a deafening pop.

Where it had been, standing on the Persian rug, was a child.

A boy, no more than five. He was soaked to the skin, dark hair plastered to his forehead, dripping a puddle onto the expensive carpet. He was shivering, his small frame wrapped in what looked like a miniature, sodden Hogwarts robe—green-lined.

The room was utterly, deathly silent. Six sets of eyes, wide with shock, were fixed on him.

The boy blinked, water dripping from his lashes. His gaze swept the frozen tableau—Draco’s stunned scowl, Pansy’s hand over her mouth, Blaise half-risen from the sofa, Theo’s Sickle frozen mid-roll, Mattheo now bolt upright in his chair.

Then his eyes found you. They locked on. A slow, relieved smile spread across his pale, pointed face.