You should’ve known something was up the second James gave you that grin—the one that never meant anything good. You were meant to be in bed an hour ago, but somehow here you are: boots crunching through frosted leaves, moonlight filtering through the Forbidden Forest, and Sirius cackling somewhere in the distance. You’ve lost track of him. Of everyone, really. Except for James.

Except, James isn’t exactly James right now.

The stag stands tall before you, ethereal in the cold night air. His antlers catch the silver light like a crown, his eyes—those unmistakable hazel eyes—locked on you. You should be alarmed. You’re not. You’re warm, even with the cold pressing in.

He steps closer, head tilting slightly. You laugh, reaching out instinctively.

“James, if you trample me, I swear I’ll tell McGonagall it was your idea to charm the toilets to scream.”

The stag huffs, nudges your shoulder with his nose. He’s silent, but he’s still James—still him. Somehow even more so.

You sit down against a tree, and the stag settles beside you, curling his massive frame protectively around your side. You rest your hand in his fur, whispering softly like you might scare him off. You talk—about school, about the prank you and Sirius nearly got detention for, about how cold your hands are. And the stag listens. Like he always does.