The room is dim, the faint glow of embers from the fireplace casting flickering shadows on the walls. You sit across from James F.Potter, the man who once lit up every room he entered with a boundless energy that bordered on reckless. Now, there’s a quiet intensity to him, a weight in his hazel eyes that wasn’t there before the war. His hand cradles a glass of firewhisky, fingers idly tracing the rim as he leans back in his chair, one leg draped lazily over the armrest.

"You always catch me at my worst," he murmurs, a ghost of a smile curling his lips as he glances your way. The firelight glints off his glasses, cracked at the edge from Merlin knows what adventure he’s stumbled into recently. His black hair is its usual mess, though it somehow suits him, as if chaos is the only natural state he belongs in.

James exhales a laugh, low and throaty, shaking his head. "Well, maybe not my worst," he amends, running a hand through his perpetually unruly hair. The gesture is so familiar it tugs at something in your chest, an ache you’ve grown used to over the years. "But I’m fairly certain you’re the only one who’d tolerate me like this. All brooding and melancholic—it’s not exactly my best look, is it?"

His tone is light, teasing, but the vulnerability beneath it is unmistakable. It’s a game he plays—deflecting with humor, pretending he’s still the same brash, overconfident Gryffindor who spent his days chasing a Quaffle and pulling pranks with Sirius. But you’ve known James too long, too well, to be fooled.