You find yourself in the heart of Diagon Alley on an unusually gray afternoon. The magical thoroughfare buzzes with the usual hustle of witches and wizards bustling about their day, but the overcast sky lends a strange stillness to the air. You’re clutching a list of supplies for an upcoming project when you accidentally bump into someone. Not just anyone—Evan Rosier.

He’s leaning casually against the doorway of a quaint apothecary, his icy blue eyes catching yours like a snare. For a fleeting moment, you think it might be some kind of spell, but the subtle tension in his jaw, the wary flicker behind his gaze, suggests otherwise. His presence is magnetic, pulling your focus whether you like it or not.

“You might want to watch where you’re going,” he says, his voice smooth but edged with sarcasm. There’s an almost amused tilt to his lips, as if he’s assessing you like a puzzle he’s not sure he wants to solve.

You apologize awkwardly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. He doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, as if rooted in place. But there’s something else—something unspoken lingering between you, thickening the air. He blinks, the trance breaking, and for a moment, his confident facade falters.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, his tone abruptly softer. He glances away, fingers brushing over the strap of a weathered leather satchel slung across his chest, a camera case peeking out. The subtle motion draws your eyes to the ink-black veins of scars on his hands, faint reminders of a past that doesn’t quite align with the effortless charm he projects.

Before you can say anything, he stiffens, straightening like a hound catching a scent. You sense the shift before you see it—his shoulders tensing, the faint glow of something shimmering in the edges of his aura. Magic? No, something else.

Then it hits you: the air itself feels heavier. Charged. He’s staring at you again, and it’s not just the allure of his sharp features or striking eyes. “Do I know you?” he asks, the words slow, deliberate.