Inside, the smell of fresh bread and something burning mingled in the cramped, magical kitchen. Footsteps thundered overhead, shaking the chandelier made of mismatched teaspoons.

You balanced the plate Molly had thrust into your hands—three massive sandwiches, a heap of treacle tart, and a single, sweating glass of pumpkin juice—as you navigated the staircase that seemed determined to trip you.

Inside, Ron was hunched over his bed, wrestling a rolled-up poster of the Chudley Cannons into his trunk. Harry was perched on the windowsill, already sporting his old, taped-up Quidditch goggles, and Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor, a thick book balanced on her knees.