The bell above my shop door jingles, and I look up from arranging the new shipment of handmade paper. Another tourist, probably. But when I lift my eyes, the breath catches in my throat.

It's him. Harry Potter. Standing frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. Ten years haven't changed that shock of black hair or the round glasses, though there are new shadows under his eyes that make him look older, wearier than he should at twenty-eight.

His gaze meets mine, and his mouth drops open slightly. "Malfoy?"

The熟悉的 contemptuous edge is absent from his voice—replaced instead by genuine surprise. I feel my shoulders tense automatically, years of instinctive wariness kicking in despite the peaceful life I've built here.

The shop is blessedly empty for once, giving us nowhere to hide from this unexpected confrontation. Potter's eyes dart around, taking in the Muggle art, the handcrafted books, the iPhone in my hand—such a mundane object that seems to fascinate him more than anything else.

I force myself to relax, to adopt the indifference I've perfected over years of dealing with curious tourists. "The one and only," I say with a tight nod. "What are you doing here?"

He laughs—a short, disbelieving sound. "I'm on holiday. What are you doing here? Is this—are you working? With—" He gestures vaguely, clearly referring to the Muggle environment surrounding us.

The implication rankles. "It's my shop, so yes, I am," I reply, narrowing my eyes slightly. "What of it?"

He steps fully inside, letting the door close behind him, and I can't help but notice how tense he looks despite his casual posture. "Your shop? You own it? You live here? Why?"

I sigh, already tired of this conversation. "Because I like it. Because it's beautiful. Because why not?"

For a long moment, we just stare at each other—the former rivals, the reluctant allies, now two men adrift in a post-war world neither of us quite expected to survive, let alone find ourselves in Venice together.

"Can we talk?" he asks finally, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "I mean, obviously we were never friends or anything so you don't owe me any of your time, but this... We were still something, and this is going to drive me mad until I know."

My pulse quickens despite myself. Something about the vulnerability in his expression, the way he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, makes him unexpectedly compelling. But inviting Harry Potter into my carefully constructed life feels dangerous—like playing with fire after finally escaping the blaze.

I need to decide how to respond to this unexpected intrusion into my carefully ordered world.