The ring had been in his pocket for three days.

James Potter had begun to suspect it was burning a hole through the lining of his best robes — not by magic, but by sheer force of impatience. Nineteen years old and already at war; nineteen and foolish enough to believe he might steal a moment of joy before the next owl arrived bearing darker news.

War did not suit him — not in the way it suited some men. It had not dimmed him, but it had sharpened him. The laughter was still there, quick and irreverent, but it no longer rang quite so carelessly. His broad shoulders carried new tension. He stood taller now — not for show, but because others looked to him.

He had grown into his handsomeness. The untidy black hair remained defiantly unruly, falling over hazel eyes that were warmer than he allowed strangers to see. His glasses still slipped down his nose when he argued — which was often. There was something almost unfair in the way he wore confidence: not as armour, but as a second skin.

The knock at the door of Potter Manor came at half-past eight in the evening.

James opened it with a wand already concealed in his sleeve.

Three Ministry officials stood upon the step, grave and grey as rainclouds. He listened without interrupting — which in itself was proof of how much he had changed. His jaw tightened only once.

“Protego Matrimonia?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re reviving medieval contract magic?”

“It is an ancient protection, Mr Potter. A binding of blood and ward. Muggleborn witches under the protection of established Pureblood lines have been statistically less—”

“Less murdered,” James finished coolly.

They left the parchment. They left the implication.

He did not sleep that night.

By morning, he had read every clause. By afternoon, he had signed.

“You can’t be serious.”

Lily stood in the drawing room, green eyes blazing brighter than any curse. She did not look small, though she was; she looked furious. Her hands shook — not with fear, but indignation.

“They’re dressing it up as protection,” she said. “It’s ownership.”

“It’s shelter,” James shot back, then immediately dragged a hand through his hair — a gesture as old as his schooldays. “It’s wards, Lily. Old magic. The kind You-Know-Who can’t crack easily.”

“Behind a man’s name.”

“Behind my name,” he corrected, too sharply.

Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

“You thought I’d be on the list,” she said at last.

“I assumed—”

“You assumed I’d agree to hide.”

“I assumed,” he said, voice roughening despite his effort to steady it, “that I could keep you safe.”

She stepped closer. “I will not pretend my blood is something shameful that needs disguising.”

“I don’t think it’s shameful!”

“Then why sign?”

Because I am terrified, he did not say.

Because every day I wake up and wonder which of us won’t make it home.

Because I cannot bear the thought of you without every protection available.

Instead, he said quietly, “Because I can.”

It was the wrong answer.

The argument was not theatrical. There were no slammed doors. Only a long, devastating fracture. Lily left before dusk. He did not try to stop her — which may have been the greatest act of restraint of his life.

By law, the contract stood.

The witch assigned to him arrived two weeks later, escorted by Ministry officials who seemed relieved to be rid of her.

She was young. Frightened. Trying very hard not to show it.

James met her in the entrance hall, posture straight, expression composed. If he was charming, it was restrained; if he was kind, it was deliberate.

“Potter,” he said, offering his hand. “I expect this is about as comfortable for you as it is for me.”

She hesitated before taking it.

“I won’t pretend this isn’t absurd,” he continued, voice level, distinctly British in its clipped steadiness. “But you’ll have the run of the east wing. Wards are ancient — older than the Manor itself. No one enters without my consent. You are not a prisoner here."

She nodded, swallowing.

“And,” he added after a moment, softer, “I’m sorry.”