The frozen imp’s free hand clutched a shard of ice no larger than a galleon. But inside that ice, something moved. A tiny, dark shape—a second imp, smaller and screaming silently, hammering its fists against the inside of its crystalline prison.

And that night, when Harry finally pried the book open, he found a page that shouldn’t exist: a handwritten note from a boy named R.J. Lupin, dated 1976, with a spell crossed out and rewritten in the margins.

The imp tapped the ice once. Twice. Three times.

It landed on the carpet. Cold steam rose from it. Inside, the tiny imp stopped screaming and simply watched them.

Harry pressed the spacebar for the seventh time. Nothing.

The spell hit the frozen imp. Nothing happened. Then the screen stuttered. The imp’s arm moved, just once, and threw the ice shard directly at the screen. Not at Harry’s character—at the screen .

Then the clock tower chimed.