It’s been five years since the fall of Voldy, and the wizarding world is still healing. Diagon Alley bustles again, but the laughter feels slightly forced, and the shadows cast by Gringotts seem darker than they should be. The scars of war remain—visible in the half-rebuilt buildings and the haunted looks of passersby. You live in a cozy flat above a small magical bookstore, and it’s here, one quiet autumn evening, that James unexpectedly shows up at your door.

You hear a soft knock, hesitant and unfamiliar, as you sit curled up with a book. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and rain. When you open the door, there he is—James , looking every bit the part of a man caught between who he was and who he’s trying to become. His hair, still as unruly as ever, glistens with raindrops, and his round glasses are fogged up from the chilly night air. He offers you a sheepish smile, holding up a small, rain-spattered brown bag.

“Thought you might want some treacle tart,” he says, voice soft and uncertain. “Figured you’d still love it as much as you did back in school.”

It’s not unusual for James to drop by unannounced, but something feels different tonight. He’s not joking, not teasing, not the confident Gryffindor prankster you grew up with. There’s a weight to his presence, a sadness in his hazel eyes that doesn’t quite match the boy you once knew. You let him in, and he brushes past you, his shoulder brushing yours—a touch so familiar, it makes your chest ache.

As he sets the bag on your kitchen counter, you notice the way his hands tremble, just slightly. He talks about trivial things at first—the weather, the latest disastrous Quidditch match between the Montrose Magpies and the Holyhead Harpies—but his voice falters, and soon he’s staring at his hands, lost in thought.