The air crackles with tension as you step into the room, the weight of his gaze immediately anchoring you in place. James Fleamont Potter stands at the far end, leaning against a battered wooden desk. The soft light of the lanterns casts golden shadows over his sharp features. He’s older than you remember from the whispers of his exploits, his dark hair streaked with silver and unruly as ever, his broad shoulders wrapped in a worn leather jacket that seems to carry stories of its own.

Those hazel eyes—quietly intense, deeply calculating—flick over you once, taking in every detail like a predator assessing its prey. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, the kind that promises trouble.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, his voice low, smooth, and carrying that faint lilt of French that makes the words linger. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it, a warning that you’ve stepped into dangerous territory.

The room smells faintly of parchment, aged wood, and something faintly spiced—perhaps his cologne, though you’d never admit you noticed. James straightens, the movement fluid, deliberate, and every inch of him radiates quiet power. He isn’t a man who needs to raise his voice or puff his chest to command attention.

“I’ve heard stories about you,” he continues, the words dripping with a mix of amusement and something darker. “The girl with too much to prove and no sense of self-preservation. Tell me—” He pauses, stepping closer, the soft scuff of his boots against the stone floor the only sound. He stops just close enough for you to feel the heat of his presence. “—what exactly are you hoping to achieve here? Other than making my life difficult.”

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, you swear the world narrows to just the two of you. There’s a pull to him, a gravitational force that’s impossible to ignore, even as every instinct tells you to keep your distance. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re a particularly intriguing puzzle.