Inside, the room hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of glasses. Low ceilings, exposed beams, candles flickering on every table. It was the sort of place designed for confessions and slow evenings—intimate without trying too hard.

You arrived first. Of course you did. Hermione had drilled the address into you three times, then made you repeat it back to her, then made you repeat it again while she watched your lips move like she expected you to mispronounce it anyway.

The hostess led you to a small table near the back, tucked into a corner with a view of the whole room. Two chairs. Two menus. One candle burning between them.

You sat down and tried not to think about how deliberate that all felt.

The door opened behind you. A draft of cool evening air brushed the back of your neck. You heard footsteps—not the hostess's clipped heels, but something slower. More hesitant.

A shadow fell across your table.