Harry did not linger in the prefects' bathroom.
The steam clung to him as he dressed, the echoes of the egg's song still threading through his thoughts like cold fingers. The riddle had settled into him with unsettling clarity, below the surface, an hour, what has been taken, but clarity did not bring comfort.
Water.
He had learned to swim, after a fashion, during summers with the Weasleys, splashing and laughing in the pond beyond the Burrow. But swimming was not the same as surviving. Not for an hour. Not without air.
And Hogwarts' lake was no friendly pond.
By the time he slipped back through the portrait hole, the common room was quiet but not empty. A handful of students dozed by the fire or murmured over homework. Ron and Hermione looked up at once, alert in the way of people waiting for news.
Harry crossed the room and dropped into the armchair opposite them.
"It sings," he said without preamble.
Ron blinked. "The egg?"
Harry nodded. "But only underwater. It's a riddle, something's been taken, and I have to find it in the lake. I get an hour."
Hermione's brow furrowed instantly, already parsing. "An hour underwater?"
"Yes."
Ron winced. "That's… not great."
Harry leaned back, staring up at the darkened ceiling. "I can swim. That's not the problem."
Hermione glanced at him sharply. "Then what is?"
Harry hesitated.
This, this quiet, gnawing dread, felt childish after dragons and war, but he did not dismiss it. He had learned, on Pandora, that ignoring fear only made it sharper.
"I don't know how to breathe underwater for an hour," he said quietly.
Silence followed.
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "There'll be spells," he offered. "Gillyweed, maybe—"
"I don't know if that'll be enough," Harry said. "The lake's old. Deep. Whatever's down there won't play fair."
As if summoned by the words, something brushed the edge of his awareness.
A pull.
Not sharp. Not urgent.
Familiar.
Harry straightened slowly. "Do you hear that?"
Hermione stilled. "Hear what?"
He listened again. It was faint, like sound carried through water, rhythmic, layered, alive. Not words. A call.
"No one else hears that?" he asked.
Ron shook his head. "Mate, it's past midnight. You're exhausted."
Hermione reached for his arm. "Stress can do strange things," she said gently. "Especially after everything you've been through."
Harry nodded, though the unease did not fade. "Yeah. You're probably right."
They said their goodnights soon after, the common room dimming as embers settled low in the hearth. As Harry climbed the stairs to the dormitory, the sensation lingered, like a tide waiting to rise.
"It sounds like Pandora calling again," he muttered under his breath.
Behind him, Ron and Hermione paused.
They exchanged a look, quick, worried, unspoken.
Neither followed him.
Harry fell asleep quickly.
Too quickly.
The world shifted without resistance.
Warmth surrounded him, not heat, but presence. Gentle. Encompassing. Roots curled beneath him, glowing softly, their light pulsing in time with a vast, steady rhythm.
He knew where he was before he opened his eyes.
The Tree of Souls rose above him, its tendrils shimmering like a living constellation. Bioluminescent motes drifted through the air, settling on his skin like blessings.
Eywa.
The name was not spoken. It was felt.
He was not alone.
Jake stood nearby, older than the last time Harry had seen him, lines at the edges of his eyes, strength settled deeper into his frame. Neytiri knelt beside him, cradling something small and impossibly fragile.
A child.
Blue-skinned. Bright-eyed. Breathing softly.
Jake looked up and grinned, the kind of grin that carried a thousand memories. "Took you long enough," he said.
Harry swallowed hard, emotion rising swift and sharp. He knelt without thinking, lowering his head in respect. "She's beautiful."
Neytiri's eyes softened. She inclined her head. "She knows your voice already."
Harry laughed quietly, disbelief and joy tangling in his chest. "Figures."
Jake shifted the child slightly, careful and reverent. "You remember what we talked about," he said, tone light but gaze serious.
Harry nodded. "I do."
"Good," Jake said. "Because she's going to need a godfather who knows how to walk between worlds."
Eywa's presence deepened, the Tree's light brightening until it filled everything, memory, purpose, connection flowing through Harry like breath through lungs he did not yet know he needed.
When he finally opened his eyes again,
He was back in his bed at Hogwarts.
But the pull remained.
And for the first time since hearing the egg's song, Harry understood.
The lake was not just water.
It was a threshold.
And Pandora had never truly let him go.