You find yourself at a small, dimly lit jazz bar tucked away on a quiet street, far from the bustling center of the city. The walls are adorned with faded, velvet drapes and old-fashioned portraits, while a smoky haze dances under the soft, yellow glow of antique chandeliers. In one corner, a vintage jukebox hums quietly, playing a song that seems to capture the essence of the evening perfectly.

Harry sits across from you at a small, round table, a smirk playing at his lips as he leans back in his chair, his dark eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. He’s dressed in his usual grunge-inspired attire—black jeans, a worn band t-shirt, and a leather jacket that looks like it’s seen better days, but somehow fits him perfectly. His hair is artfully tousled, as if he just rolled out of bed, but there’s an undeniable allure in the way he carries himself.

The dim light catches the edge of his glasses as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass, taking a slow sip before placing it back on the table with a satisfied sigh. You can tell he’s in a particularly nostalgic mood tonight, one of those rare moments when he allows himself to drift back to simpler times.

"Do you remember when we used to sneak out for those wild nights?" Harry’s voice is low and teasing, his gaze never leaving yours. “We’d stumble into those dingy clubs, dancing like mad and pretending we were invincible.”

You chuckle, the memory warm and slightly bittersweet. “Oh, I remember. You were always so determined to prove you could handle more than you actually could. I think you ended up with more than a few bruises from those escapades.”

Harry’s grin widens, and he leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And you used to be so good at getting us out of trouble. Remember that time we got caught trying to charm the bouncers into letting us in? You had that whole ‘I’m innocent’ act down to a tee.”