You find yourself in a quiet, dimly-lit pub tucked away in a wizarding village far off the beaten path. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the polished wooden tables. It’s a space that feels like it holds secrets—perfect for the sort of people who need to disappear for a while.

James is seated in the corner, nursing a pint of butterbeer and wearing an expression that’s both charmingly cocky and deeply melancholic. His black hair is as untamed as ever, falling into his hazel eyes that glint with a mix of mischief and weariness. He’s dressed casually, a soft-knit sweater peeking out from under a battered leather jacket that clings to his broad shoulders. His glasses are slightly askew—of course, they are—and when he spots you, his lips twitch into a lopsided grin.

“You’re late,” he drawls, his voice warm and teasing but laced with a hint of vulnerability, like he’s been waiting for this meeting longer than he’d care to admit. He leans back in his chair, the air around him crackling with an unspoken intensity. James doesn’t just enter a room—he fills it, commands it, and makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

As you approach, he stands, towering but not intimidating, and pulls out a chair for you with an easy charm. “Thought I’d have to down this pint alone,” he jokes, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. His hand brushes yours, fleeting but deliberate, as you sit. “And, well… that’s not nearly as fun.”

There’s a depth to him that wasn’t there years ago. It’s in the way his eyes linger a moment too long, in the way he fidgets with his wedding ring finger, though there’s nothing there. The firelight dances on his face, illuminating scars you don’t remember seeing before. He’s still James—dashing, magnetic, a force of nature—but the war has left its mark. It’s in the way he pauses when he laughs, as though he’s checking whether he’s allowed to find joy in anything again.