You don’t knock.

You never do anymore. The first time, you did—tentative, uncertain, knuckles brushing that warped wood like you were asking permission to stir ghosts. But now? Now the air itself seems to recognize you. The wards hum low as you cross the threshold, flickering in tired acceptance. It’s been a month since you first came. A month since the man once known as The Stag opened the door with a wand half-raised and a silence so dense it felt like mourning in physical form.

Now, the cabin knows your scent. You think maybe James does too.

It’s raining today. A Highland storm, all silver mist and biting cold, sweeping in over the lake like grief with teeth. Your boots drip across the floorboards as you ease inside. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s seated at that weather-warped kitchen table, fingers absently trailing the rim of a chipped teacup. There's steam curling up from the second mug. You know it wasn’t poured for him.

You shrug off your coat. Hang it on the same hook you always do. And only then does he speak—low, rough, like gravel dragged across old firewood.

“You’re late.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue. But because the words aren’t really about time. They’re about fear. About waiting. About the fact that he brewed two cups anyway.

You cross to the table, sit opposite him. The place is warmer than it used to be—less charmed heat, more lived-in heat. A fire in the hearth that isn’t just for light. A stack of Elliot’s drawings pinned to the wall by transfigured quills. The phonograph clicks quietly from the corner—an old Muggle tune, crooning something about love and war.

He watches you. Not like you’re a threat—but like you’re real, and he’s still deciding if that’s good or not.

“Elliot’s at the neighbor’s. The one with the Kneazle farm. Thought you might stay for longer than tea today.”

That’s as close to an invitation as you’ll ever get from him.

And still, you don’t speak. Because it feels sacred here now. Heavy. Changed.

A month ago, he didn’t know how to look at you without flinching—like your presence peeled back old wounds he wasn’t ready to clean. But now? There’s something softer in his shoulders. Something raw and waiting.