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A shadow of a smile played across Theresa's lips as she held the gaze of the dark-haired stranger. His raised brow was both mocking and curious, his eyes glinting with a wicked amusement that made her pulse quicken.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied, her tone light, yet she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. He let out a low, amused hum, his smirk widening.

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean." He leaned forward, voice smooth as velvet. "Those cards of yours—they're marked, aren't they? Tell me, how long have you been dealing in this little game? You're clever, Miss Walsh. Far too clever for a place like this."

His words cut, but not in the way she'd expected. For a moment, she faltered, her gaze shifting to the table, where the men had placed their cards aside, nursing their drinks and waiting impatiently for her next move.

"Why are you here?" she countered, her tone masking a tinge of defiance. "That suit of yours is too fine for Knockturn Alley. If you once walked the halls of Hogwarts, then surely you've fallen... rather far."

A low chuckle slipped from his lips. "Presumptuous, aren't you? But I assure you, Miss Walsh, my life here is by choice. Unlike you, I imagine." His gaze flicked over

her, a subtle appraisal, his tone unsettlingly familiar. "There's something about you that doesn't belong here. So, tell me your story, and I won't expose your little game to your patrons."

He took a slow, measured sip of his drink, studying her with an intensity that felt like a weight pressing on her skin. His gaze was piercing, almost predatory.

"Are you threatening me?" she asked softly, her voice calm, though her heart thundered. She had known him mere minutes, yet she sensed that he meant every word, that he would indeed keep his word.

"Think of it as... encouragement. You intrigue me, Miss Walsh. You aren't like the rest of the lost souls here." His eyes dropped to her hand, to the tarnished ring that still clung to her finger, the last relic of a life long gone.

"That ring tells me you were once someone. So," he leaned close, his voice a hushed murmur, "who are you really?"

She hesitated, feeling the words press against her throat. "Forgive me, but we are strangers. Once, perhaps, I had something to tell. But now, Theresa Walsh is a nobody, forgotten and unremarkable."

The admission stung like salt on a wound, a bitter reminder of the life she'd lost.

Silence settled between them, his dark eyes studying her with a glint of interest she hadn't expected.

"You are anything but unremarkable, Miss Walsh," he said, standing from his stool, his tone shifting to something almost... admiring. "But don't fool yourself into thinking you're a shadow. You can choose to be a footnote, or a fire that devours every page."

He placed a few coins on the counter, far more than his tab required. He lifted his glass, a dark smile still lingering. "I'll keep your secrets," he murmured before moving toward the door.

"And why the sudden generosity?" she called after him, crossing her arms as his words echoed through her mind.

"It's your story," he replied, his voice edged with amusement. "Who am I to interfere?"

As he reached the door, he paused, casting a final glance over his shoulder. "I'd like to see you again, Miss Theresa. Very soon."

With that, he was gone, swallowed by the thick black of Knockturn Alley's night.

Her lips curved in a faint, almost defiant smile as she turned back to her patrons. She wouldn't admit it, but she too found herself looking forward to the stranger's return.

What she didn't know was that she was playing with fire.