You’re tucked into a booth near the back, a half-empty glass of firewhisky warming your palm. The seat across from you is empty, but the dent in the cushion suggests it hasn't been for long.

A familiar laugh cuts through the ambient noise—bright and unmistakable. Astoria. She’s at the bar with Pansy, both of them leaning in close over something on the counter. Pansy’s got that look, the one that says she’s about to cause trouble. Astoria catches your eye and grins, lifting her glass in a silent toast.

The door to the pub swings open, letting in a gust of cool evening air. A figure steps through, silhouetted against the amber streetlight of Diagon Alley. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The door swings shut behind him, and the firelight catches the silver glint of his hair.

Draco Malfoy scans the room with the practiced ease of someone used to commanding attention. His gaze lands on your table. Holds.

He doesn’t smile. He just starts walking toward you.