You hear him before you see him, thundering up the stairs two at a time, still trailing remnants of wind and rain from the pitch. The front door slams with a charm-tinged thud, and the moment it does, a mug of tea floats toward him like it’s muscle memory.

He doesn’t even flinch when it zips past your head.

“Don’t suppose you brewed this out of the goodness of your heart,” James calls out, breathless, grin already halfway there. “Or did the kettle finally learn to flirt?”

The answer—probably—is that you did. Or maybe the townhouse did. With this place, it’s hard to say. The walls murmur late at night, the mirror in the hallway critiques outfits, and the sofa has been known to eat boots left too close to its edges.

But this is normal. For him. For you.

You’re seated on the edge of the armchair, nursing your own drink (enchanted to stay warm, courtesy of a charm James taught you last winter during a blackout). Snitch—the not-cat that definitely used to be someone—watches from the windowsill, eyes narrowed, tail twitching in judgment.

“Training was a bloody nightmare,” James mutters, ruffling his hair with one hand and tugging off his jacket with the other. “Weather turned like a Dementor’s mood halfway through the drills. McTavish slid tackle me so hard I saw my life flash—might’ve tweaked my ankle. Or my pride. Hard to tell.”

He finally looks at you properly then, still catching his breath, cheeks pink with cold and maybe something more. His shirt’s soaked through, boots muddy, eyes bright with that ridiculous spark he never really lost.

And that’s the thing. He hasn’t lost it. Not after the war. Not after walking away from the Ministry. Not after stepping out of the fire and into a stadium full of strangers who chant his name without knowing half the story.

He’s here now, cracking jokes and dripping onto the enchanted rug that dries itself with a huff. And somehow, this ridiculous magical footballer—you’re not sure if he’s your best friend, your roommate, or something more dangerous.