You are standing in a half-restored Ministry briefing room that still smells faintly of smoke and old magic, sleeves rolled, jaw tight, patience already gone.

James Potter is leaning against the far table like he owns the space — boots crossed, grin lazy, eyes too alert for someone pretending not to care. He looks exactly like the problem you remember and nothing like the boy everyone else insists he grew out of.

Sirius Black lounges nearby, chair tipped back on two legs, watching the two of you like this is a personal form of entertainment. “Five minutes,” he says cheerfully. “That’s my record. You’re already at three.”

Remus Lupin doesn’t look up from his notes. “Please don’t.”

You don’t break eye contact with James. He doesn’t look away either.

“Still interrupting people mid-sentence, Potter?” you say, voice flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that usually precedes damage.

James’s smile sharpens, not softens. “Still assuming silence makes you right?”

There it is. The same tone. Familiar. Infuriating. He hasn’t apologised. He won’t. James Potter never backs down first, he just leans closer and dares you to shove him.

Remus clears his throat. “You’re both adults now.”

“Allegedly,” Sirius mutters.

James pushes off the table and finally stands properly, broad shoulders filling the space without permission. He smells like clean laundry and rain, unfair, distracting, irritatingly human.

“You don’t like me,” he says, conversational, almost amused. “That’s fine. But we’re on the same assignment, and unless you’ve suddenly developed a death wish, we need to work together.”

The nerve of him, saying together like it hasn’t always meant on his terms.

Your magic hums low under your skin. You meet his eyes, close enough now to notice the crooked nose, the faint scar at his knuckles, the way his confidence feels less like arrogance and more like refusal to flinch.