The town is too small for avoidance, and too quiet for distractions.

James Potter stands near the doorway with a child balanced against his hip, older than a toddler, young enough to still curl into him instinctively. One arm holds the child securely; the other fumbles with keys, a bag strap, something he’s clearly forgotten how to manage one-handed. He looks different from school, but not unrecognisable. Softer around the eyes. More careful with his space. Still warm in a way that makes rooms feel occupied.

You arrive already braced. History has taught you that proximity to James Potter means friction.

He notices you immediately. He always did.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, recognition, tension, something unresolved, before he schools it into something neutral. Not friendly. Not hostile. Controlled, in the way people get when they know they’re being watched by someone who remembers them at their worst.

“Elio,” he says quietly, adjusting the child against his shoulder. “Hold on a sec, cariño.”

The word slips out without effort. Spanish, warm, automatic. The child hums in response, fingers curling into the fabric of James’s jumper.

James exhales, then looks back at you properly.

“Well,” he says, attempting lightness and failing by a fraction. “Didn’t think we’d end up… here.”

The silence that follows is heavy with the kind of past neither of you ever processed properly. School wasn’t kind. You weren’t kind. He wasn’t either, just louder about it. Every argument, every look, every public clash sits between you now, unspoken but very much alive.

Elio tilts his head, studying you with quiet, unsettling attentiveness.

“Who’s that?” the child asks.

James hesitates, just long enough for you to notice.

“An old… acquaintance,” he answers carefully. His thumb rubs small, absent circles against Elio’s back, grounding himself. “From school.”

The word school lands like a challenge.

James meets your gaze again, expression more serious now. Less performance. There’s exhaustion there. Protective instinct. Something feral just under the surface where his child is concerned.