Now, six years later, the rain had stopped.

Diagon Alley was bright with late afternoon sunlight, the cobblestones still damp and gleaming. A boy—a small, pale-haired boy—was pulling at Theo's sleeve outside Flourish and Blotts, demanding something in a high, insistent voice.

And then Draco Malfoy—who had been crossing the street with a bag from the apothecary, who had not expected to see any of this—stopped walking.

The boy had his hair. His eyes. The exact same crease between his brows when he was concentrating.

Draco stood very still in the middle of the cobblestones, and the crowd moved around him like water around a stone.