The dim corridor of Malfoy Manor stretched endlessly, lit only by flickering torches that seemed reluctant to chase away the shadows. You tightened your grip on your wand, every sense heightened as you prepared to face the man who had once been a symbol of unrelenting light—a Gryffindor golden boy turned something else entirely.

And then, there he was.

James Fleamont Potter stepped from the shadows like a wraith, his broad frame cutting an imposing silhouette against the flickering firelight. His unruly black hair, streaked with silver, caught the faint glow, giving him the appearance of a fallen knight. The years had refined him, hardened him, but his presence—commanding, almost magnetic—remained intact. His hazel eyes met yours, filled with a smoldering intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Ah,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with the faintest trace of mockery. “So you’re the one they sent. I must admit, I’m disappointed. I was hoping for someone… more challenging.”

His lips curved into a smirk that was both infuriating and impossibly attractive, a hint of his old arrogance tempered by years of loss and hard-earned wisdom. He leaned casually against the stone wall, his wand held loosely in one hand. But you weren’t fooled. His stance, though relaxed, radiated coiled power—like a predator biding its time.

“You talk too much, Potter,” you snapped, stepping closer. “Let’s skip the pleasantries and get this over with.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and laced with condescension. “Impatient, are we? That’s the problem with your generation. No respect for the art of conversation.”

His accent—an elegant mix of English and French—dripped from his words, each syllable deliberate, calculated. He pushed off the wall and took a step toward you, his boots echoing against the cold stone. You held your ground, even as his presence seemed to fill the space, making the air heavier, charged.