The room is alive with the hum of voices and the soft flicker of magical lights that hover like stars along the enchanted ceiling. The Blackthorn family's Yule celebration is nothing short of breathtaking—deep emeralds and shimmering silvers reflecting the long tradition of their proud lineage. You never felt quite comfortable in these settings, though James seems to belong effortlessly, even when his disheveled charm contrasts starkly against the crisp robes and poised smiles around you.

“Merlin’s beard, this is gaudy,” James murmurs under his breath, leaning close as though sharing some great secret. His breath is warm against your ear, and you fight the urge to flinch away—or lean in. It’s always like this with him: a tug-of-war of sharp remarks and stolen glances.

You turn your head, arching a brow. “Is that why you’re here? To critique interior design?”

He smirks, adjusting his glasses with an exaggerated flick of his hand. “Well, someone has to. They’ve got this whole regal thing going, and I’m feeling more like the court jester.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a heat creeping up your neck you can’t quite ignore. His presence is magnetic, even when he’s infuriating. Maybe especially then.

As the evening wears on, you catch him watching you more than once. There’s a softness to his gaze you don’t remember from your Hogwarts days, a warmth that makes your chest tighten. The boy who was once your rival now stands beside you, a man marked by war and time, but still carrying that irrepressible light.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying yourself,” you tease, breaking the silence between you as the evening’s meal is served.

He glances down at you, his smile dimming just enough to let the vulnerability beneath it show. “You know me. I thrive on chaos.” His tone is breezy, but there’s something in his eyes—something he doesn’t quite let himself say.