It drummed a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the roof of your small flat, a sound so constant it had become part of the silence. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of old books, chamomile tea, and the faint, clean smell of cedar from the pet bedding.

You were curled on the sofa, a well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire open in your lap, but you hadn’t turned a page in over an hour. The words were just familiar shapes. Your attention was divided, as it often was, between the pages and the room’s other occupants.

On the arm of the sofa, Draco the white ferret was meticulously cleaning one paw, his sleek body a bolt of lightning against the dark fabric. Every so often, he would pause, black eyes sharp and assessing, to stare at you with an expression that felt oddly like disdainful approval.

At your feet, a tangled mound of ginger fur purred in unison. Fred and George, the twin tabbies, were a single entity of comfortable chaos, one paw draped over the other’s back. A half-knocked over mug sat safely on the coffee table, a casualty of their earlier synchronized sprint across the room.

And in the large glass terrarium by the bookshelf, Mattheo the black snake was a coil of obsidian stillness. He wasn’t sleeping. His head was raised, those unblinking amber eyes fixed on you from across the room with an intensity that always made you pause. It was more than animal curiosity. It felt like being studied.

Outside, the rain intensified. A sudden, violent crack of thunder shook the windowpanes. It wasn’t like normal thunder. This one felt closer, sharper—wrong. It didn’t rumble away. It shattered.

The light in the room didn’t flicker. It bent. For a single, nauseating second, everything seemed to warp—the lines of the bookshelf blurred, the shadows stretched in directions they shouldn’t, and a sound like tearing silk and breaking glass filled the air, though nothing was visibly damaged.

Then, silence. A deafening, pressurized silence.

On the sofa arm, Draco went rigid. A low, distressed chittering noise escaped him. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at his own front paws as they began to… lengthen.

The mound of ginger cats at your feet erupted. A yowl, not of fear but of profound surprise, split the air as two forms thrashed, uncoiling, growing, the fur seeming to melt into fabric, limbs reshaping with audible, sickening pops.

From the terrarium came a soft, dry rustle. Mattheo was moving. Not in a slither, but in a slow, deliberate uncoiling that seemed to take up more space than the tank should allow. The glass didn’t break. He simply… outgrew it, his form shifting, dark scales dissolving into the folds of black wool trousers, a pale hand bracing against the bookshelf.

The warping light settled. The wrong-sound faded.

You were no longer alone with your pets.

On the floor where the cats had been, two identical young men with shock-red hair and freckles were tangled in a heap of limbs and oversized sweaters that had definitely not been there a moment ago. They were staring at their own hands with identical expressions of bewildered glee.

On the sofa beside you, where a ferret had been, sat a pale, pointy-faced boy with platinum blond hair and wide, storm-grey eyes filled with pure horror. He was clutching the sofa cushion, his knuckles white, dressed in what looked like finely tailored but rumpled black robes.

And leaning against your bookshelf, one hand still resting on the wood for balance, was a tall, dark-haired boy. His face was all sharp angles and pale skin, his eyes a haunting, familiar amber. He looked at you, and his gaze was not bewildered or horrified. It was deep, knowing, and terrifyingly calm.

The redhead on the bottom of the pile shoved his twin off and sat up, running a hand through his chaotic hair. He blinked at you, then at his brother, then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.