On an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, in an unremarkable part of Diagon Alley’s modern extension, two men who had spent three years perfecting the art of forgetting were about to have their hard work undone.

Draco Malfoy had only stopped for coffee. That was all. A simple, overpriced coffee from a café he claimed to hate but visited at least twice a week.

Mattheo Riddle had been dragged along under the promise of "somewhere decent," which in Draco’s vocabulary meant somewhere with acceptable espresso and minimal chance of running into anyone they knew.

Neither of them expected to see you.

But there you were.

And beside you, holding your hands, were two small children.

One with pale blond hair and grey eyes so familiar it made Draco’s chest tighten.

The other with dark curls and deep brown eyes that belonged to Mattheo’s reflection.

For a long, suspended moment, neither man moved. Neither man breathed.

Mattheo, for once, had nothing clever to say. No sharp remark. No joke. He just stood there, frozen, watching a little girl with his eyes tug at your sleeve.

You had every right to turn away, grab your children, and disappear into the crowd. But the world, cruel as ever, kept you exactly where you were.

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed. Mattheo’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Three years. Three years of convincing themselves they were right. Three years of pretending they hadn’t lost everything.

And now the truth was standing in front of them, small enough to hold your hand.