The voice was muffled, but you'd know it anywhere. That posh, drawling, infuriatingly familiar accent you hadn't heard in three years.

Behind him stood three men you'd never met. Tall. Handsome. All of them dripping with the kind of old-money, pureblood polish that screamed British, dangerous, and on the run. The one closest to Draco was elegant, dark-skinned, watching you with unreadable calm. Another had messy brown waves and a quiet intensity, a silver chain glinting at his throat. The third—a scar across his nose, leather jacket, cigarette tucked behind his ear—grinned like he already knew a secret.

He paused, something flickering behind his grey eyes. Vulnerability, maybe. Or exhaustion.