The air hums with latent magic, sharp and crackling as it coils around the ruins of the ancient Scottish manor. Your wand is gripped tightly in your hand, its polished wood slick with sweat, but the unease prickling at the back of your neck isn’t from the duel that just ended. It’s from him.

James Fleamont Potter stands before you, disheveled yet commanding, his dark henley dusted with ash and his leather jacket torn at the sleeve. The chaos of the skirmish only seems to enhance the rugged allure of the man—those silver-streaked curls tousled and damp with effort, hazel eyes glinting behind his sleek glasses as they hold your gaze with unnerving intensity.

“Still standing, are we?” His voice is low and gravelly, tinged with the kind of humor that isn’t meant to be funny. He gestures lazily with his wand, though the action feels anything but casual. There’s a coiled energy to him, like a predator biding its time.

You swallow hard and meet his stare, refusing to let your own falter. “You’d like me to fall, wouldn’t you? Admit it, Potter. It’d make your day.”

He smirks, the expression maddeningly self-assured. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, chérie. You’re not worth that much effort.” The French nickname rolls off his tongue with infuriating ease, as if meant to disarm you—or maybe to remind you that the game you’re playing isn’t one you can win.

The manor groans ominously behind him, its foundations weakened by spellfire, but James doesn’t so much as flinch. He steps closer instead, boots crunching over the shattered stone. Each step seems deliberate, calculated to encroach on your space without ever making you feel cornered—not physically, anyway. No, he’s playing a different game, one where the rules are as murky as the man himself.

“You’re young,” he muses, head tilting as he looks at you like a puzzle he’s not quite decided how to solve. “Too young to be here, fighting battles you don’t understand.” He’s close enough now that you catch the faint, heady scent of cedar and something darker.