Hogwarts, some time in the 1800s.

The cave is colder than the air outside, the kind of cold that slips beneath your skin and settles against bone. Water laps softly at the stone, black and glass-smooth, reflecting the faint glow of your wand in trembling shards. You tell yourself you’ve come for curiosity alone. You tell yourself this is not a pilgrimage.

Your shoes scrape against damp rock as you step closer to the pool. The ceiling disappears into shadow above you, jagged and ribbed like the inside of some great, sleeping beast. There are markings along the walls—old ones, half-eaten by time and moss—spells etched by hands that no longer exist. The cave remembers them, even if Hogwarts does not.

You kneel at the water’s edge and trail your fingers through the surface. It is colder than you expect. You draw your hand back with a quiet breath, heart stuttering, and that is when you feel it—the sense of being watched.

“You’re not meant to be here.”