You remember the first time the Great Hall ceiling opened up and the candles floated. Not the plot. Not the dialogue. The ceiling. Some images lodge somewhere logic cannot reach and simply stay there for decades, quiet, until something cracks them open again.
Twelve hundred drones rise off the fairgrounds and draw that ceiling across the real sky. Not a screen. Not a projection. The actual night, rewritten in light, while a live violinist threads the original score underneath formations that shift from the Sorting Hat to the Whomping Willow to a Patronus wider than the field you are standing on. The band on your wrist pulses in time with all of it, so you are not really watching the show. You are inside it.
Two nights only, in October, outdoors.
Parents who read the books aloud fifteen years ago will stand beside those kids, now grown, and neither one will say a word for a full minute.