It was supposed to be a routine curse-break.

A quick sweep of an artifact chamber. Low stakes. High boredom. The kind of mission you were half-asleep through—right until the moment the door slammed shut behind you, sealing you both in with a sickly green glow and a loud click of locking enchantments.

You whirl on instinct, wand drawn, ready to hex—

And it’s him.

Of course it’s him.

James bloody Potter, looking unfairly good in Ministry black, blinking at you with hazel eyes like this is some kind of cosmic joke.

“Trapped,” you say flatly.

“Together,” he adds, not helping.

The room is small. Too small. Just walls, no windows. Enchanted for silence and secrecy, like all the best Unspeakable cells. You try not to notice how the air feels charged. Or how his presence fills it like thunder.

You lean against the far wall. “Merlin must hate me.”

He grins. “No, he’s just got taste.”

“Shut up.”

“I did. For two years. Remember?”

His voice cuts sharper than any curse. And you hate that it lands.

You’d ended it. You’d had to. War and love don’t mix well, not when love comes in the shape of James—all golden charm and reckless heroism, with a death wish disguised as a sense of duty.

You cross your arms. “You still narrate your own life when you’re nervous?”

He tilts his head. “James Potter is trying very hard not to strangle his ex in a cursed Ministry closet.”

You snort, despite yourself. He smiles like he’s won. He always does that.

The room hums, as if sensing tension. You both look up at the same time. The enchantments are reacting—feeding off magic. And emotion. Great.

He notices it too. “We need to stay calm,” he says, which is hilarious considering he’s James.