It was late—well past midnight—when you padded softly into the kitchen, the house cloaked in the hush of sleeping walls. As you passed the living room, a soft golden glow spilled across the hallway floor, flickering gently like candlelight.

Curious, you paused and peered in.

There, curled up in the armchair by the fireplace, sat your son, Scorpius. He was bathed in the warm light of a reading lamp, a thick book resting in his lap, one hand propping up his chin while the other slowly turned a page. His expression was intent, eyes scanning the words with quiet fascination, utterly absorbed.