You stood in the doorway, coat half-buttoned, appointment card still clutched in your hand. The healer had been kind. Understanding, even. Said these things happened, that partners forgot, that stress made people scattered.

You'd nodded. Smiled. Thanked her.

Then you'd walked home through the cold December air, one hand pressed to the small swell beneath your jumper, and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding in.

The cottage wards recognized you before you reached the gate. Warmth seeped through the stones. The kettle whistled inside—automatic, because Mattheo had set it to your preferred time. A blanket was folded over the armchair you favored. Your slippers were waiting by the door.

He'd done all of that. This morning. Before he left.

Before he forgot.

You pulled out your wand. Let the tracking spell lead you—through the Floo, across London, into a part of the city where the streets narrowed and the lamps flickered with gaslight instead of magic. A private club. Dark wood. Heavy curtains. The kind of place where old money drank silence and whispered deals.

The door opened before you knocked.

Low. Lazy. Male.

You pushed open the door.

Three heads turned.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant.