This is not one of those mornings.

At first, everything is normal. The pale September light filters through the dormitory windows, casting thin rectangles across the wooden floor. Somewhere to Y/n's left, Pansy is already complaining about the temperature. To the right, Daphne is muffling a laugh into her pillow. The scent of old stone and cedar hangs in the air, mixed with the faint floral notes of someone's shampoo from last night's shower.

Y/n blinks groggily at her hand.

There's a red thread tied around her index finger.

Not a scary red. Not a blood red. Just a red red. Like embroidery floss. Like the sort of thing a first-year would use to make friendship bracelets during a boring Charms lecture.

She blinks again.

Still there.

Y/n examines it with the detached curiosity of someone who hasn't had coffee yet. It's thin, almost delicate-looking, looped once around her finger and tied in a neat little knot. No loose ends. No visible origin. Just a tiny scarlet cord, snug against her skin.

Okay. Weird.

She tries to pull it off.

It doesn't budge.

She tugs harder. Nothing. It's like it's been sewn directly into her skin.

Pansy's voice cuts through the morning haze. Are you going to lie there staring at your hand all day, or are we going to actually eat breakfast before the porridge turns to concrete? she has a point, actually. the porridge here has a very small window of edibility.

Y/n opens her mouth to reply—

And the thread pulls.

Not a physical tug, exactly. More like a gentle insistence. A sense of direction. Like someone is holding the other end, somewhere beyond the dormitory walls, and giving it a little experimental shake.