The rain was a fine, persistent mist, the kind that soaked through wool and settled in the bones. It was the sort of afternoon meant for small, warm apartments and strong coffee, not for standing vigil on a foreign street corner.

Draco Malfoy had been standing there for twenty-seven minutes. His black wool coat was beaded with moisture, his pale hair darkened at the temples. He didn’t move to cast a charm. The discomfort felt like a penance.

Then, the heavy green door of the building opposite swung open.

Alessandra stepped out.

She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper against the pallor of her skin. She wore a simple, oversized charcoal jumper and dark trousers, her hands buried deep in the pockets. No coat. No umbrella.

She turned to lock the door, a familiar, precise motion that sent a physical pang through him. Then she paused on the top step, her gaze lifting to the misty sky as if deciding whether the rain was worth the trouble.

That’s when he saw it. The unconscious, protective curve of her body as she descended the steps. One hand came out of her pocket to cradle the subtle, impossible swell at her abdomen, just for a second, before she tucked it back away.

The world tilted. The sound of the city—the distant horns, the chatter from a café down the lane—muffled into a dull roar.

She froze on the last step, one foot on the wet cobblestones. Her shoulders tensed, a slow, deliberate movement. Then she turned.

Her eyes found his across the narrow street. There was no surprise in them. Only a deep, weary resignation.

His eyes dropped, against his will, to the place her hand had been. The subtle curve was unmistakable now, even beneath the thick wool. A secret she was carrying in plain sight.

The pieces—her sudden flight, her silence, the haunted look in her eyes that last morning in London—slammed together with a force that stole his breath.