James Potter was the kind of boy who seemed untouchable—golden and grinning, the world bending just slightly in his favor wherever he went. He walked like he owned the castle, all easy confidence and unshakable charm, a permanent smirk tugging at his lips like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe he did.

But right now, under the dim lantern glow of the corridor, he wasn’t just the James Potter that everyone knew. He was something softer, something quieter. His uniform was slightly rumpled, tie loosened like he’d pulled at it absentmindedly, the sleeves of his jumper pushed up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms covered in faint Quidditch bruises. His hair, a perpetual mess, was even wilder than usual—like he’d run his hands through it one too many times in frustration, a nervous tell he’d never quite grown out of.