It sat tucked at the end of a cobbled mews half a mile from Diagon Alley, the sort of place that had never once been mentioned in the Prophet's society pages. Low ceilings. Sticky tables. An actual fire. Nobody important came here. Which was precisely why the two men in the corner booth had come here.

Two men who were, objectively, the worst people in this pub.

The fair one was straight-backed and immaculate, pale as parchment, his platinum hair catching the firelight as he turned a glass of firewhisky a quarter-turn at a time. He had the look of someone who'd chosen the seat with the clearest sightline to every door in the room.

He's the one who pays the mortgage on the concept of paranoia.

The dark one sprawled opposite him, one arm along the back of the booth, nearly black hair falling forward over a scar across the bridge of his nose. His rings clicked softly as he turned them, over and over. He hadn't looked at the door once. Didn't need to.

And then the door opened, and the draught came through the whole room at once, and the fair one—Draco, catch up—looked up.

A stranger stepped in out of the rain.