You hadn’t expected to see James Potter again, not like this, not older, broader in the shoulders, confidence worn looser but sharper around the edges. Time has made him better at hiding things, not kinder.

The room is too small. The air hums faintly with warding magic and irritation.

James leans back against the table like he owns it, arms folded, mouth tilted into that infuriating half-smile that always meant he thought he was winning. He looks at you like he’s already annoyed you, like that’s proof of something.

“So,” James says lightly, eyes dragging over you in a way that feels less casual than he’s pretending. “This is hell, then? Thought there’d be more fire.”

You don’t smile. You never do for him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply. “You’re just inconvenient.”

His jaw tightens, fast, instinctive, then he laughs, too loud, too easy. It’s the same old defence, polished with age.

“Still allergic to fun,” he says. “Some things really don’t change.”

You step closer, close enough that he has to look down at you instead of past you. Close enough to see the way his fingers curl against his sleeve, restless.

“Funny,” you say quietly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The humour drops. Just for a second. Long enough to matter.

James straightens, pushing off the table. The space between you shrinks, charged, sharp, not quite anger, not quite something else.

“You always did think you were better than me,” he says, voice lower now. Less showy. “Moral high ground and all that.”