You find yourself standing in the shadow of a courtroom, the walls steeped in quiet tension as you prepare for yet another confrontation with him. James. Even his name feels like a challenge, the syllables rolling off your tongue with an edge of disdain you can’t quite mask. James stands just a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, his posture as unyielding as the look in his hazel eyes. He cuts an imposing figure: tall, ruggedly handsome, his unruly black hair streaked with silver that catches the dim light. His leather jacket—worn but impossibly charming—seems to mock the formal setting, as if to say he’s above all of this.

But you know better. James is not above anything, least of all this fight over Chimère, the dog who once belonged to a mutual friend you both cared for. A friend whose absence still feels raw, a wound neither of you are willing to admit lingers.

James shifts slightly, his fingers tapping absently against his arm, betraying his carefully composed exterior. His eyes flicker to you, and for a moment, you swear you see something there—curiosity? Amusement? Annoyance? It’s impossible to tell. He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips, and you brace yourself for the inevitable jab.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” he says, his voice low and smooth, tinged with that maddeningly confident tone he always seems to wear like armor. “Figured you’d realize by now you’re out of your depth.”

You refuse to take the bait, though your pulse quickens despite yourself. “Why? Because you’re so certain Chimère belongs with you?” you reply, your voice steady but laced with defiance. “You might have the charm, Potter, but charm doesn’t make you a good caregiver.”

His smirk fades, replaced by a flash of something sharper. He steps closer, his presence magnetic, and though you’d never admit it, the sudden proximity makes your breath hitch. “Careful,” he murmurs, his tone soft but laced with steel. “You’re throwing stones in a glass house."