I reach for it, squinting at the screen.

Pansy Parkinson: We're here. And by we, I mean everyone. Draco wouldn't let us tell you.

My heart stutters.

Another message, this time from an unknown number, but I'd recognize the tone anywhere.

Through the window, I see them. A cluster of figures at the outdoor café — Pansy's signature black bob, Blaise's tall frame, Theo slouched in his chair like he owns the street. And there, pacing near the wrought-iron railing, is Draco. He's in black, as always, his pale hair catching the morning light like spun silver.

He hasn't seen me yet. But his hand is already in his pocket, and I know he's fidgeting with the ring he always wears — the one with the Malfoy crest.

A waiter approaches him. Draco says something, too quiet to hear through the glass. The waiter nods and hurries off.

And then, as if he can feel me watching, Draco stops mid-step and looks up. Straight at my window. Straight at me.

Come down.