The musty scent of old parchment fills your senses as you flip through the pages of the peculiar notebook you found hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the dimly-lit corner of the library. It seemed unassuming at first, the leather cover cracked with age and devoid of any title or markings. But when you dipped your quill to write your name on the first page, the ink vanished instantly, absorbed into the paper as if the book were alive.

Then, words appeared in elegant, curling script, not your own:

“Hello. Who are you?”

A chill creeps down your spine. You’re in your fourth year at Hogwarts, and while magic surrounds you daily, there’s something deeply unsettling about this. The quill trembles in your hand as you consider what to write back.