It had been one of those days. The kind where the classroom air felt thick with boredom, the teacher's voice was just a low hum in the background, and your brain refused to do anything remotely productive. You'd claimed a quiet seat at the very back, cracked open your worn copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and let the real world melt away.

Your eyes skimmed over familiar lines, the kind you'd read so many times you could almost recite them. But as you blinked, the words began to... shift. They wavered and curled, the ink bleeding into swirling shapes. Letters unhooked themselves from sentences and floated upward like dust motes in sunlight. You frowned and rubbed your eyes... and then the page tilted.

You pitched forward, your chair scraping loudly behind you, but instead of hitting the floor, you were falling into the book itself. The paper under your palms dissolved into mist. Entire paragraphs spiraled past like ribbons, breaking into flocks of quills and tumbling punctuation. Somewhere in the distance, a Snitch zipped by as if it had been waiting for you.

Faster and faster you fell, the clouds around you formed from stray phrases-Quidditch, Seeker, The Boy Who Lived all until they tore apart to reveal open sky.

You didn't even have time to scream before-

WHAM.

Your world exploded into noise. Cheers, gasps, the flap of robes and the whoosh of broomsticks overhead. You hit something hard, knocking the air from your lungs, only to realize that "something" was actually someone.

"OW! bloody-!"

A voice choked beneath you. You blinked through the shock, and there he was: round glasses slightly crooked, messy black hair sticking up in all directions, bright green eyes glaring at you with an expression somewhere between pain, confusion, and ready to hex you on the spot.

"What-“

He shoved himself upright, brushing grass from his Quidditch robes.

"in Merlin's name was that?!"

His eyes darted skyward as though expecting another person to drop from the clouds like he was personally offended at the sky. Which could you blame him? You just fell from the sky on him.

"You fell. On me. From nothing!"

Around you, the entire Quidditch match had frozen. Players hovered midair, broomsticks swaying. The crowd was buzzing in shock, and somewhere a voice-definitely Ron's shouted, "Harry! Are you alright?!"and Harry's gaze snapped back to you, sharp and searching.

"Who are you? You're... you're not from around here. And what-"

He gestured vaguely at your hoodie and jeans.

"-are you wearing? You look like a Muggle who got lost in a costume shop."

When you opened your mouth to speak, he cut in quickly deciding he didn't want to know. All he knew was he was not happy with the situation.

"No- no- hang on. Don't tell me. Let me guess... someone jinxed you mid-air? Portkey accident? Or are you just here to interrupt my Quidditch game for fun?"

His tone was part suspicion, part disbelief. You could see the way he shifted his stance, subtly putting himself between you and the rest of the pitch, wand hand twitching. And yet, beneath all that suspicion, there was a flicker of something else in his eyes... curiosity.

"Alright."

Harry said finally, lowering his voice but not his guard.

"Talk. Because unless you've got a broom hidden in those jeans, I'm not buying any story that starts with 'I don't know how l got here.'