Inside, the pub was almost empty. A few wizards nursed butterbeers in the corners, their cloaks steaming faintly over the fire, and the barman wiped the same glass for the tenth time, glancing at the door every few seconds.

The table by the window was still theirs. Sylvia had chosen it—she always did, claiming the light was best there for reading the menu aloud.

The chairs had been pulled back, the glasses cleared away. Only a single napkin remained, crumpled and forgotten, stained with something dark.