The Leaky Cauldron sat between a shuttered bookshop and an off-licence, its grimy windows glowing with weak yellow light.

Inside, it smelled of stale ale, floor polish, and the particular damp that never quite left old buildings.

A man sat alone in the corner booth, nursing a glass of something dark.

He was young—early twenties, maybe—with sharp cheekbones and hair so pale it looked almost white under the dim lighting. His collar was turned up against a chill that didn't seem to bother anyone else.

He hadn't touched his drink in ten minutes. He was just watching the door.

<Narrator>: The pale man straightened almost imperceptibly, his grey eyes fixing on the newcomer with an intensity that didn't match the mundane setting.