You agreed to watch the flat above the apothecary for Marlene while she’s off chasing Death Eaters in Italy. You didn’t know the other set of keys went to James Potter. Now you’re both stuck in the space for two weeks, with a single kettle, a cursed shower, and a long list of memories neither of you have forgiven each other for.

The key turned in the lock just as you were setting the kettle down.

You froze.

Not because of the sound.

But because of the voice that followed it—cocky, familiar, and utterly unwelcome.

“Hope you didn’t drink the last of the tea. I’ll hex you into the bloody wall if you did.”

You turned.

And there he was.

James Potter. Tall, soaked from rain, glasses fogged, hair wet and somehow still perfect in its dishevelment. He didn’t even look surprised to see you—just annoyed. Like you were a stain on his day.

“Potter,” you bit out, wand twitching. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He blinked slowly, dripping onto the carpet like the chaos he always was.

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.” He dropped his bag by the armchair—your armchair—and started shrugging off his coat. “Marlene said I could crash here. Ward rotation for the alley’s a two-person job.”

You stared at him.

“No. No fucking way. I’m not sharing a flat with you.”

He shrugged. “Take it up with her. Or the war. I don’t care which. I’m staying.”

“Over my dead—”

He stepped closer, chest rising, voice low and sharp.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Silence cracked between you, heavy with old bruises and newer scars. The rain outside thudded harder against the windows, like the world itself wanted out of the tension hanging in this room.

You exhaled. Forced calm. Or something like it.