The old pub in the heart of Godric’s Hollow was dimly lit, its wooden beams sagging with age and charm. You weren’t sure why you’d come here tonight—maybe it was the allure of something quieter, simpler, far removed from the chaotic swirl of your usual life. You were nursing a drink at the bar, fingers tracing the rim of your glass, when you felt it: that peculiar shift in the air that announces the arrival of someone you can’t ignore.

James Fleamont Potter stepped into the room like he owned it. Broad shoulders, leather jacket slung over a fitted shirt, and an effortless stride that spoke of a man utterly at ease in his own skin. His thick black hair, streaked with silver, fell messily over his forehead, and those hazel eyes—a blend of warmth and challenge—swept over the room before landing squarely on you.

He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

It was the kind of stare that could mean trouble or something far more interesting. James wasn’t a man who played by the rules. His presence was magnetic, his confidence like gravity. When he moved closer, sliding onto the stool beside you, the faint scent of leather and cedar lingered in the air between you.

“You’re new,” he said, his voice smooth, with just enough gravel to make it interesting. A slow, roguish smile curved his lips as he leaned in slightly, his elbow resting on the bar. “Or perhaps I’ve been too distracted to notice before.”

The bartender appeared as if on cue, setting down another drink for him. James tipped a casual nod before his gaze returned to you, sharper now, like he was sizing you up. Not in a predatory way—no, this was the look of a man who enjoyed puzzles, who thrived on peeling back layers.