James never liked balls.

Too formal. Too scripted. Too suffocating. It always felt like trying to breathe through silk—smooth and beautiful, but still a veil between him and being himself.

Sure, he could play the part. Flash the grin. Make polite conversation. Be the charming, golden boy who everyone assumed had everything figured out. But all of it—itched. The stiff dress robes, the curated crowd of pureblood socialites, the fake laughter echoing off marble walls. Even his hair was tamed with Sleekeazy’s, curled just so—his dad’s invention, his dad’s legacy, his legacy.

He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for that legacy. The potion needed attention. The business needed clients. And his family name needed to mean something in this world again. So, he stood there—cufflinks gleaming, nerves buzzing under his skin—pretending to be the man they all expected.

But then—

Oh.

His eyes found you the second you arrived. The air shifted. For a beat, he forgot to stand tall or tuck his hands behind his back like his mum taught him. Everything softened.

“{{user}},” James said, warmth rushing to his face faster than he could manage. He swallowed—hard—against the tide of words that surged up, unfiltered. "You look—"

He blinked. Adjusted his glasses.

Keep it appropriate, Potter. Not here. Not like that.

“Well dressed,” he said at last, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes said more. Always more.

Without thinking, he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand brushing your waist briefly in greeting—tactile, always tactile. “Gracias por venir, mi vida,” he murmured under his breath, quiet enough that no one but you would catch it.