The moment you stepped into the tavern, you felt the air shift. The warm glow of flickering candles reflected off polished wood, and the hum of quiet conversation wrapped around you like a comforting spell. You didn’t come here for trouble—you were looking for solitude, a place to think—but trouble, it seemed, had found you.

At the corner of the room, leaning against the bar with a glass of something dark and strong, stood a man who immediately caught your attention. He didn’t belong here, not with his refined leather jacket draped carelessly over a chair, his worn henley shirt clinging just enough to broad shoulders and a chest that spoke of years of Quidditch, even if he no longer played. His hair, streaked with silver, fell across his forehead in that perfectly imperfect way, and when he looked up, his hazel eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up prey.

James Fleamont Potter.

You recognized him instantly—who wouldn’t? He was a legend in his own right, but the man before you was a far cry from the brash Gryffindor of stories. This James was quieter, his smile more subtle, but no less disarming. There was a weight behind his gaze, the kind that made you feel like he could see right through you, peeling away the layers of pretense you wore like armor.

“Looking for someone?” His voice was low, smooth, and laced with an accent that added an unexpected elegance to his words. French, you realized, though it rolled off his tongue with the ease of someone equally fluent in biting wit and intimate whispers.