You had warned James, over and over again.

Your family was… traditional. Pureblooded. Prestigious. Obsessive. The kind of people who hung portraits that still hissed at anyone with "mud" in their veins. And James P? He had dirt under his nails, messy hair, and the nerve to be born into a family that believed love mattered more than blood.

You kept him secret. Or tried.

Until the letter came.

Your father’s owl flew in through the open window with its signature red wax seal. One look at it, and your stomach dropped. He knew.

You didn’t expect James to show up at your house that night. But he did—on a broom, no less. His shirt was wrinkled, his glasses crooked, and his hair looked like he’d flown through a hurricane… which he probably had.

Your father opened the door with all the warmth of an Azkaban warden. James didn’t flinch.

—“Good evening, sir,” he said, standing tall. “I assume you’ve heard. I’m in love with your child.”

Your father said nothing. Just glared, wand already in hand.

James glanced at it, raised his eyebrows and added, “So, are you going to hex me or should I put the kettle on?”

You nearly passed out from the tension.

But your father… paused.

Maybe it was James’s ridiculous bravery. Maybe it was the way he stood there, completely himself, not pretending to be who your family wanted. Or maybe, it was the way your father noticed the quiet look in your eyes—fear, yes, but also certainty.

He didn’t lower his wand. But he didn’t hex James either.

And when you later found James sitting awkwardly in the parlour, sipping tea beside your silent father, he only looked at you and whispered, “Told you I was charming.”