The air smells faintly of smoke and old books as you find yourself in a quaint little shop tucked away in the corner of Diagon Alley. James is leaning against the counter, his trademark messy black hair sticking up in every possible direction, looking impossibly casual despite his disheveled leather jacket and perpetually broken glasses. He’s fiddling with a dusty trinket that looks like a cross between a clock and a teapot.

“Do you think this thing’s cursed?” he muses, turning it upside down. His hazel eyes glint with mischief as he glances at you, but there’s a hint of something deeper—something quieter—in his gaze.

You’ve known James for years, and while he’s always had an effortless charm about him, these days, there’s a slight hesitation in his demeanor, like he’s still trying to remember who he is. The war did that to people. It’s done it to you, too.

“Don’t touch it,” you warn, though there’s no real bite in your tone.

Naturally, he doesn’t listen. The teapot-clock sputters to life, whirring and glowing faintly. James yelps, nearly dropping it, and you can’t help but laugh as he fumbles to shove it back onto the counter.

“Oi! I thought you were supposed to have my back,” he protests, grinning despite himself.

The shopkeeper, an ancient wizard with a beard long enough to trip over, peers over his spectacles and sighs. “Mr. Potter, if you’re quite finished destroying my inventory…”

“Sorry, Edgar,” James says sheepishly, shoving his hands into his pockets. He casts you a side glance as you suppress another laugh. “See what you’ve done? Corrupted me into a menace.”