James Potter stands across the room like he owns it, sleeves rolled, jaw tight, confidence worn like armour instead of ease. Time has sharpened him, not softened him. The boy who once ruled corridors grew into a man who knows exactly how much space his name still takes up.

You were never impressed.

At Hogwarts, you were the rare exception, unimpressed by charm, unmoved by bravado, immune to James Potter’s loud confidence and louder reputation. You didn’t laugh when others did. You didn’t forgive quickly. You didn’t forget the way he chose cruelty when it suited him.

He noticed. He hated it.

Now, years later, you’re both adults and forced into the same orbit, assigned to the same Ministry task force, bound by contracts and shared risk rather than choice. You’re competent, controlled, sharp in ways that don’t ask permission. James is still reckless with his opinions, still infuriatingly sure of himself, still allergic to being disliked.

He doesn’t bother pretending to like you.

Conversations between you crackle, barbed remarks, unfinished arguments, silences that feel heavier than shouting. He pushes. You push back harder. He gets under your skin because he wants to, because he can’t stand that you never needed him to be anything other than what he was.

Sometimes his temper slips, Spanish bleeding into his voice, anger turning vivid and personal. Sometimes your composure fractures just enough for him to notice.

Neither of you calls it tension. Neither of you backs down.

You don’t trust James Potter. James Potter doesn’t want your trust, he wants to win.

And yet, in the quiet moments between conflict, in the space where hatred lingers too long to be simple, something unspoken hangs in the air, sharp, electric, unfinished.

The job isn’t over. The history isn’t buried. And whatever this is between you has teeth.