Inside the small coffee shop, it was warm. Soft music hummed in the background, low enough to blend with the gentle clatter of cups and the quiet murmur of conversation. A few tables were occupied—students hunched over laptops, someone reading by the window, a couple speaking in hushed tones. Not busy. Not empty. Just calm.

The door opened with a soft chime. A brief gust of cold air swept in, carrying with it the scent of impending rain and expensive cologne.

Draco Malfoy stepped inside.

He was tall, easily noticeable, dressed in a charcoal wool coat that was perfectly tailored. His pale blond hair was neat, his expression one of detached focus as he glanced at his watch. He moved with a quiet, assured efficiency, as if every step was calculated.

For a moment, nothing changed. The student kept typing. The reader turned a page. The steam wand hissed.

Then his cool grey eyes swept across the room, passing over the tables, the art on the walls, the menu board—and stopped. They landed on you, behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine.