The sun beat down on the cracked asphalt of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. It was a Tuesday. The air smelled of hot tar and distant cut grass.
You were pushing a cart with a wobbly wheel, loaded with generic cereal, milk, and the off-brand mac and cheese Cassian liked. Your mind was on the school bake sale on Friday, on whether you had enough eggs.
Then you saw him.
Leaning against a dusty, decade-old pickup truck, one foot propped on the bumper. He was squinting at a cell phone, thumb scrolling. He wore faded jeans and a plain grey t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Ordinary. So painfully, devastatingly ordinary.
But the white-blond hair, swept back from a sharp, pale face. The line of his jaw. The way he held himself, even in stillness—a coiled, aristocratic tension he’d never quite lost.
Draco Malfoy.
Your breath hitched. The cart stopped. The world narrowed to the space between two parked cars, thirty feet away.
He looked up, not at you, but down the row, his grey eyes scanning the lot with a bored, familiar irritation. He was older. Lines at the corners of his eyes. Thinner. But alive.
Alive.
The groceries in your cart suddenly felt like artifacts from a life that wasn’t yours. You turned the cart around, the wobbly wheel shrieking, and walked quickly back to your own beat-up sedan. You didn’t look back.
The drive home was a blur of pine trees and country radio. Your hands were tight on the steering wheel. Draco Malfoy is supposed to be dead. The Prophet had been certain. The survivors’ lists… they’d all said he’d fallen in the Great Hall. Along with Theo. Along with…
You pulled into the gravel drive of your small ranch house, the tires crunching. The familiar sight of the wraparound porch, the hanging baskets of petunias, Cassian’s tiny baseball glove on the steps—it all felt like a movie set. A fragile diorama.
Inside, you put the groceries away on autopilot. Your wand, wrapped in an old tea towel at the back of the highest kitchen cabinet, seemed to hum, a phantom limb.
You had to get Cassian. School let out in forty minutes. It was a twenty-minute drive.
You got back in the car.
Oak Grove Elementary was a low, brick building surrounded by oak trees. The car line was already forming. You parked, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You scanned the playground, the steps, the clusters of waiting parents.
And you saw them.
Not just Draco.
Leaning against the chain-link fence near the bike racks, talking quietly. Two figures. One blond, one with sandy-brown hair, worn in a deliberately messy style.
Draco Malfoy. And Theodore Nott.
Theo laughed at something, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looked… relaxed. Healthy. Alive.
Your vision tunneled. The sounds of children shouting, cars idling, faded into a dull roar.
Then the school doors burst open. Kids streamed out.
And there he was. Your son. Cassian. His dark curls bouncing as he ran, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was looking for your car, his face lighting up when he spotted it.
He didn’t see the men by the fence. He was heading right for them, cutting across the grass.
Theo turned his head, following the movement of the kids. His gaze passed over Cassian, then snapped back.
His easy smile vanished. His eyes widened. He said something sharp to Draco, who turned.
Draco’s head swiveled. His grey eyes locked onto the small, running boy. Then they lifted, scanning, searching—and found you, frozen in your driver’s seat.
His expression went blank with pure, unadulterated shock.