James Potter never expected you to be standing in his doorway again, not like this, not soaked from cursed rain, not staring at him with the same familiar, cutting disbelief you wore so well at school.

You were supposed to leave. You were supposed to hand over the file, mutter something sharp, and disappear back into your life.

Instead, the wards flare.

The door seals with a dull, unmistakable thrum.

James swears under his breath, not loud, not dramatic. Tired. Spanish slips out before he catches it. “Joder…”

Behind him, small footsteps pad softly across the wooden floor.

Elio appears at the corner of the hall, clutching a blanket, dark eyes flicking between you and his father. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches. He always watches.

James turns immediately, all sharp edges blunted in an instant. He crouches, speaks quietly, reassuringly, like the world has never hurt him a day in his life. “It’s okay, cariño. Just weather wards. Go sit, I’ll be right there.”

Only once Elio retreats does James straighten again.

The silence stretches.

You take in the house without meaning to, the clutter, the warmth, the way nothing matches but everything belongs. It doesn’t look like the home of the boy who used to laugh too loudly in classrooms and call it charm.

James notices your gaze. He always notices.

“Before you say it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “no, I didn’t plan this. And no — you’re not stuck because I want you here.”

There’s no humour in it. Just honesty, edged with something defensive.

Another ward pulses, firmer this time.

He exhales slowly, already calculating snacks, blankets, bedtime routines. You see it happen in real time: the shift from man to father. The way his shoulders square, not for you — for the child down the hall.