You pushed the heavy oak door open, the familiar creak a backdrop to the chatter inside. A cool breeze, carrying the distant smell of parchment and potion ingredients from Diagon Alley, greeted you as you stepped out onto the cobblestone street.

Your hand tightened instinctively around a smaller, warmer one.

Across the street, leaning against the soot-blackened brick wall of Flourish and Blotts, a man in impeccably tailored charcoal grey robes froze.

Draco Malfoy had just concluded a tedious meeting with his family’s Gringotts account manager. He was about to Disapparate when a flash of familiar movement caught his eye.

It was you. Older, but unmistakably you. A strange, sharp feeling—something long buried—twisted in his chest.

Then he saw the boy.

The child’s hair. The shape of his eyes. The way he held your hand, looking up with a trust that was absolute.

Draco’s breath hitched. The calculations of a mind trained in bloodlines and lineage were instantaneous, brutal, and utterly conclusive.

The street seemed to narrow, the sounds of Diagon Alley fading to a dull roar. He watched you begin to walk away, the boy—his son—skipping slightly to keep up.