The tavern was tucked away at the edge of the magical world, where the line between wizard and Muggle blurred like smoke dissipating into the night. You’d heard of the place—a refuge for war-torn souls and those seeking something lost in the chaos of their lives. The wooden beams sagged with age, the fireplace crackled low, and the scent of oak and honey lingered in the air.

You weren’t expecting him to be here.

James F.Potter—former Gryffindor, ex-Auror, and the name whispered in every second Order tale—sat slouched at the corner booth, his glasses tilted on his nose, the thick black frames somehow making his hazel eyes appear even more striking. He was nursing a glass of Firewhisky, his leather jacket draped carelessly over the bench beside him, and his hair was as untamable as you remembered, though the shadows beneath his eyes were new.

You hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt. But then, his gaze lifted, catching yours in an instant. That same, maddeningly confident smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though the warmth behind it seemed tinged with something quieter now—something hesitant.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he called, his voice rich and smooth, with just enough mischief to make your heart skip a beat. He raised his glass slightly in a mock toast, his broad shoulders relaxing as though he’d just seen an old friend. “Come on, don’t just stand there. You’ve always been terrible at sneaking about.”

You moved toward him, the shuffle of your boots against the wooden floor filling the silence. His smile widened as you slid into the seat across from him. Close up, you could see how much had changed. His face was still handsome—too handsome, in that roguish way that made him infuriatingly charming—but the spark of reckless energy had dimmed. It was there, barely, but buried beneath something heavier.