You only dealt in dark magic when the price was right. Curses were cleaner than people—predictable, if you knew where to look. Until James Potter stumbled into your shop like a storm in leather and sarcasm, clutching his ribs and smirking like he hadn’t just walked through three layers of wards like paper.

“You sell curses?” he asked, grinning despite the way he winced. “Good. I’ve got one. And it’s killing me.”

You didn’t believe him. At first. But then you saw the black glyphs crawling over his skin like ink alive, saw the way his voice faltered when he said, “It started after I touched something I shouldn’t have—deep in the ruins near the coast. Old magic. It knew my name.”

Every instinct screamed to turn him away. But the runes intrigued you. So did he.

Now, you’re working together. Reluctantly. He jokes too much, leans too close, reads your notes upside down with maddening ease. And late at night, when the pain spikes and the curse pulses under his skin, he doesn’t ask for help—but he lets you stay close.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice low, teeth gritted as you trace the hex with a wand. “Breaking things apart.”

You don’t ask what he means. You already know.

And as the pieces fall into place, as the curse reveals secrets buried long before the war... you realize he’s not the only one marked by magic.