Since the war, both of you have found something in each other — not love, not exactly, but a kind of solace. It’s casual, you remind yourself every time you’re tangled up with James in the late hours of the night. You’ve known each other far too long, friends for longer than you care to count, but somewhere in the chaos of battle scars and sleepless nights, it became this. Neither of you talks about it. You don’t need to.

It started over a year ago — a night where the weight of everything finally cracked both of you open, leaving raw emotions tangled up with heated touches. Since then, it’s been an unspoken agreement: late nights, quiet words, hands that understand each other better than either of you ever will.

James doesn’t speak much these days, not like he used to. He’s still charming, still that confident Gryffindor with the mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes, but it’s different now. The war left marks that go deeper than the ones on his skin. He’s become quieter, more introspective, as if always lost in some memory he doesn’t want to relive but can’t forget. There are moments when you catch him staring out the window, the weight of guilt hanging in the air between you, though he’ll quickly brush it off with a smirk or a sarcastic remark.

But you know.

You’ve seen the shadows that cling to him, the tension in his shoulders that never quite leaves, and the way he’s almost too careful with you, as if afraid you might break. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you’ll feel his fingertips trace over your skin, slow and hesitant, like he’s memorizing the feel of you — or maybe trying to make sure you’re still there.

Tonight, it’s no different. The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth, casting warm, flickering light over the both of you. James leans against the window, staring out into the darkened sky, his fingers toying absentmindedly with his wand. His hair is a mess, as usual.You can see the tension in his broad shoulders.