— You’re just leaving the Ministry of Magic, your briefcase swinging at your side, robes slightly rumpled from the late-night shift. The lamplights of Diagon Alley flicker against the cobblestones, casting golden pools that blur into shadows. The night is quiet, save for the distant clink of glass and the occasional whoosh of an Apparition of your co-workers. You’re tired, longing for home, for a warm cup of tea and maybe the silence of your living room. But as you pass a narrow alley near Knockturn’s edge, a sharp, desperate wail cuts through the stillness.

You freeze. It’s not the sound of a cat or a magical creature. It’s a child.

Your eyes snap to the source — and there he is. A small boy, no older than two, crammed into a tattered box beside a stack of rubbish bins. His face is blotchy with tears, tiny fists clenched in panic.

You barely register the tall figure stumbling away from the box, reeking of alcohol and swaying with each step. The man doesn’t even look back.

You recognize the glassy-eyed indifference in his face — someone too drunk, too far gone to care. He’s already disappearing into the night and he seemed to be the child’s father, but your attention is fixed on the child.

You rush forward without thinking. The boy’s cries twist something deep in your chest. His cheeks are red from cold, and his hair is black as ink, already sticking to his damp face. There’s a bruise forming just under one eye.

You crouch down beside the box, murmuring softly, your hand trembling as you reach out. The boy flinches at first — then he looks at you. Really looks.

And in that moment, something unspoken passes between you. You don’t know his name yet, until you saw a small piece of parchment paper attached to the box with something written on it which seemed to be his name — “Severus.”

You don’t know the weight of what this night will mean. But you know one thing that he won’t be left here. Not tonight. Not ever again.