You knock twice.

There’s no answer.

Then, the creak of slow footsteps. A pause. The hush of wards lifting—reluctantly, like an old friend opening the door just enough to say not today.

And then you see him.

James Fleamont Potter.

Not the one from the posters. Not the boy who kissed trophies and grinned beneath stadium lights. This James is taller than you remember, but thinner. Older, but not in years. In wear. His eyes carry more shadows than flame. His limp is subtle, but telling. His wand is already in his sleeve.

He doesn’t smile. Just looks you over like you might be a ghost—or worse, a memory.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, voice low, hoarse. There's smoke in it. And something softer, under the grit, like a man trying not to hope.

“I wasn’t invited,” you answer, matching his tone. You don’t flinch when his eyes narrow. “She asked me to come. Before.”

That stops him. Not the words, but before.

Silence stretches. The wind shifts. The air thickens with magic unspoken.

James runs a hand over his jaw—beard uneven, days past trimmed. He doesn’t move to step aside. Not yet. But he doesn’t send you away, either.

“She left a note,” you add. “Said you’d be the one who stayed. Said Elliot might need more than one broken adult.”

That does it.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He doesn’t look at you again as he turns and walks back inside. Leaves the door open behind him.

An invitation. Or a dare.

Inside, the cabin smells like pine and parchment. Mismatched mugs. Half-mended broomsticks. A fire burns low in the hearth, and a second teacup sits on the table, untouched but steaming. There’s only ever one chair pulled out—but he doesn't stop you when you pull the other one closer.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says finally, not meeting your eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His head lifts just a little.

“I almost wasn’t.”

The wind howls outside. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the back room, a small voice stirs, murmuring through sleep. James doesn’t react—not outwardly. But his hand clenches on the chipped mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the room.

When he speaks again, it’s softer. Roughened by something deeper than time.

“You can stay. For now. But I’m not who I used to be. I don’t have anything left to give.”

You glance around—the charms in the walls, the warmth still lingering in the second cup, the child’s drawings scattered like offerings—and then you meet his gaze.

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t come for the legend.”

He flinches. Not from pain. From recognition.

That’s how it begins.

Not with a grand gesture.

But with a door left ajar. A second cup of tea. And a man who hasn’t looked someone in the eye in six months doing just that—and not looking away.