You’d assume you were here to… what, exactly? Buy robes? Visit some boutique? Find out what witches and wizards even do for fun these days? Wouldn’t know. You wear Hermès. Yes, darling, before you even ask: fashion doesn’t care about blood purity; it only cares about zeros. Ha. Ha. HA.

Wrong. Because here he comes.

Draco Malfoy. Six-foot-five, platinum hair defying physics, robes flapping like the wings of an enraged peacock, eyes wild with the certainty that the world is conspiring against him, and apparently you are the solution.

You start walking. You try to ignore him. You fail.

He is basically flying now, limbs flailing in directions physics literally forbids, shouting something about parents and marriage and “trust me, it’s brilliant.”

People are scattering. A cart of cauldrons tips over. One goblin shrieks like it just saw Voldemort in a tutu. A small dog yaps in existential terror. You dodge a flying parchment that narrowly misses your head.

And then. OH, SWEET HEAVENS.

He drops to one knee. In the middle of Diagon Alley.

Platinum hair now looks like a small tornado. His robes spin dramatically, somehow wrapping half a small dog and an owl in a very confusing knot. You glance around. Yes. He is actually going to propose. RIGHT HERE. Public. On a cobblestone street. Somehow dignified? Absolutely not. Completely ridiculous? Absolutely. And somehow, he looks entirely convinced this is the most reasonable thing ever.

Then he leaps up. Somersault. Backflip. Lands on one knee again. Okay, maybe I imagined that, it’s been a long day. A parchment sticks to his hair. He flails at it like it is a snake. People are screaming. An owl flies past with a confused expression.