You had been nothing more than a childhood fancy for Abraxas Malf.oy. A fleeting indulgence. A distraction from the greater ambitions expected of him. That was what he told himself.

It had been three years since he left you behind—coldly, without hesitation, at the end of your seven years, as was proper. You were a pureblo.od, yes, but not from a family of enough status to stand at his side. It had been the right decision.

The only decision.

And yet, the emptiness gnawed at him. Even as he climbed the Ministry’s ranks, as he stood among men who spoke of blood purity with conviction, there were moments—too many moments—where his mind betrayed him. He would recall the warmth of your touch, the way your lips had once pressed against his forehead, the softness of your fingers in his hair.

Each memory was a weakness, a poison he refused to acknowledge.

Tonight, after a long day filled with carefully chosen words and calculated moves, he sought refuge in a quiet pub. A drink to clear his thoughts, to remind himself that sentiment was for lesser men.

And then, fate mocked him.

There you were. Sitting at the bar, bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, as striking as you had been in his memories. Abraxas stiffened, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. He should have turned away, should have left before the past could catch up to him.

But his feet betrayed him, taking a step closer before he could stop himself.