It was supposed to be just one night — nothing more. Y/N was in London for a few days, taking a break from their ordinary life, when they met him in a quiet, dimly lit bar. He stood out instantly: pale skin, sharp features, silvery‑blonde hair, and a voice that carried both arrogance and something oddly magnetic. He told them only his first name: Draco. Nothing else. No last name, no address, no phone number. When Y/N asked where he lived or what he did, he just gave a small, secretive smile and changed the subject. Y/N didn’t push — it was meant to be a one‑off, no strings attached. They let themselves enjoy the night, no questions, no promises for the morning. When Y/N woke up, he was already gone. Not a note, not a contact, nothing but the memory of his name and the way he’d looked at them. Y/N told themselves it was just a fleeting moment, something to leave in the past. Until Y/N found out they were pregnant. Nine months later, Y/N held their daughter Elizabeth in their arms. She had Y/N/N’s eyes, but that same fair complexion and fine, pale blonde hair — a constant, quiet reminder of the stranger they barely knew. Y/N raised her alone, built a steady life, and convinced themselves they’d never cross paths with him again. “Draco” was just a name they’d probably never hear again. Until today. Soft snow fell over Hogsmeade, dusting the rooftops and turning the village into something straight out of a fairy tale. Y/N had wrapped Elizabeth up warm, her small hand tucked safely in theirs, pausing outside Honeydukes while she pressed her face to the glass, mesmerized by the sweets inside. Y/N turned to pull her closer — and bumped straight into someone solid. “Watch where you’re going,” a sharp, familiar voice snapped.