He checks his phone—nothing new, except for a message from Ron in the group chat about their fantasy Quidditch league—and he winds his way through the little streets past the port towards Palermo’s historic centre. He finds a cafe with a red-and-white awning, with a brown beaded curtain hanging over the old and crumbling doorway, and takes a seat at a plastic table outside where he drinks cappuccino and eats a granita di gelsi and a brioche col tuppo the same size as his head. It’s soft, sweet, lemony; rich but somehow light at the same time. He dips little bites of it furtively into his coffee and he flicks through the guide. 