The entrance to the Leaky Cauldron was easy to miss if you didn't know what you were looking for. A grimy pub front wedged between a bookshop and a record store. The windows were dark, the paint peeling. It looked abandoned.

Until the door swung open, and warm, golden light spilled out into the fog.

The pub was quiet for a Tuesday morning. A few witches nursed cups of tea in the corner. A wizard with a thick beard was reading the Daily Prophet, his brow furrowed. Behind the bar, a portly man with a bald head was polishing a glass with a rag.

And propped against the bar, half-turned toward the fireplace, was a young woman who didn't belong.

She was dressed in an emerald silk dress that looked far too expensive for the Leaky Cauldron. Dark hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders. A heavy gold ring glinted on her finger as she lifted a cup of something steaming to her lips. She was laughing at something the barman had said, bright and easy, like she owned the place.

The man with the Prophet glanced up at her, then quickly looked away. He clutched his paper a little tighter.

The fire crackled. The fog pressed against the windows. The Daily Prophet rustled as the wizard turned a page, his knuckles white.

A movement at the door. A tall figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the grey morning light. He shook the damp from his dark cloak, then paused, scanning the room. His gaze landed on the young woman at the bar.

He didn't smile. He simply waited.