You find yourself in a dusty old shop in Diagon Alley, tucked away in a shadowy corner that seems to resist the vibrant bustle of the street outside. The place is quiet save for the occasional creak of floorboards under your feet and the soft rustling of parchment. Shelves tower above you, packed with ancient tomes, mysterious artifacts, and delicate glass vials glinting faintly in the low light.

It’s here, among the forgotten whispers of magic long past, that you first meet Draco.

He’s standing at the counter, pale and striking against the shop’s dim backdrop. His tailored coat is dark, almost blending into the shadows, but the sharp cut of his shoulders and the deliberate precision of his movements make him impossible to ignore. His platinum-blonde hair is neatly combed, though a single strand dares to fall against his forehead. He’s engrossed in conversation with the shopkeeper, his voice low and smooth, carrying a trace of a French accent.

You shift your weight, causing the floor to groan under your boots. He glances back over his shoulder, his icy blue eyes locking with yours for a split second. The world seems to still as an inexplicable energy courses through you. His gaze narrows slightly, confusion flickering across his aristocratic features before he schools his expression back into impassivity.

The shopkeeper hands him a small, ornately wrapped package, and he takes it with a curt nod. He turns to leave, but something about you halts him mid-step. His eyes meet yours again, this time lingering, as though he’s trying to puzzle out a riddle etched into your very being.

“Excuse me,” he says finally, his voice soft yet commanding. He steps closer, his presence both magnetic and unnerving. “Have we met before?”