The first thing you notice is the sound of the wards peeling back. Like fabric tearing against the wind. They don’t dissolve gently—they reluctantly relent, as if warning you: You don’t belong here.

The second thing is the scent—smoke, ash, and old magic clinging to the doorway like a warning.

And then there’s him.

James Potter opens the door like he’s already regretting it. Six feet of quiet threat and reluctant hospitality. His eyes flicker over you once—quick, clinical—like he's checking for concealed wands or invisible bruises. Hazel, dulled but heavy. The kind of eyes that have stopped hoping but never stopped watching.

“You’re late,” he says. No real anger. Just exhaustion, tightly folded into sarcasm.

You could argue. You were on time. But something about his voice makes you hold back. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness. Like arguing with a thunderstorm.

You step in. The cottage is exactly what the rumors promised: cluttered, fortified, and frozen in some kind of quiet war. Runes buzz softly in the corners. A half-mended coat hangs near the fireplace. There's a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table. Two mugs beside it.

Only one’s clean.

“So,” he says, shutting the door behind you. It makes a sound like a vault being sealed. “You’re the girl they think I’m marrying.”

The words hit harder than they should. You both know this isn’t real. Just a contract. Just a game. Just something to quiet the wolves. Still, hearing it from him makes it sound… heavier.